A Harbinger of Frost
by Kleiomuse
Summary: A sun-kissed man haunted by dark secrets, a snow-touched noble beset by vicious enemies, and a moon-blessed girl marked by bleak destiny; they would come together in a clash of wills to determine the fate of a world. IchiRuki/HitsuRuki. Westeros AU.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: I was backpacking in Patagonia, when at one point, I stood in front of a glacier that was violently calving and heaving the waters around it. And the image that would not leave me was one of Rukia dancing in front of a royal court, and the voice that persisted in my head was that the glacier could very well have been in the North of Westeros, beyond the Wall. Hence this story. I did not choose to have it marked as a cross-over fic, though, since ASoIF readers may well take offense at how I perverted their world (I justified this by avoiding use of its characters, only its backdrop). Here, the First Men and the Old Tongue have morphed into Japanese, the Children of the Forest's magic have become shinigami's, and much of Westeros history/culture have been rewritten (mainly because I am largely ignorant of them, having read the books a long time ago). The time and place is set generations before the events in A Song of Ice and Fire._

_Disclaimer: I hearken back to my childhood as I borrow Kubo's dolls and Martin's playground, but alas! I cannot claim ownership._

_Edits: re-worded a few things, removed some anachronisms, changed a glaring error (fur coat in summer?); appreciate any corrections; now if only my two betas (dear, beloved sisters) would start getting off their *** and start beta-ing._

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**~ Chapter 1 ~**

_Legends, more often than not, can arise out of the most unremarkable of stories, the most innocent of incidents. A lady meets a young man, love follows, and empires crash while others are born. And many seasons later, only the violent birth and more savage death of empires hold our attention, but not that first meeting that seeded it._

_My hand shakes from ague and old age, and my sight barely makes out the lines on this parchment, but before the night finally claims me, I swear that I would write of that seed, and of that first meeting._

_Many claim 'twas chance they met,_  
_ Yet they failed to see their eyes;_  
_ Or that another had it set,_  
_ Do not listen to their lies;_  
_ Still others claim a ruse,_  
_ Scent the fear in their guise;_  
_ Denial could be obtuse,_  
_ Taste regret, bitter flies;_  
_ feel the beat in their hearts, echo the rhythm of the stars_  
_ in a dance so ancient, in a story time forgot._

- an excerpt from A Story Time Forgot (GSY)

**~o~**

**ICHIGO**

Ichigo muttered his greeting prayers to the goddess, as he looked down the length of the blade pointed at his chest.

"I swear Keigo, if at the end of the day I am still breathing, I will make sure that you are not." He felt his companion, slight frame shuffling against his right shoulder, shudder at his whispered statement.

"As much as I would like to join you in throttling our dear friend, Ichigo, I am afraid we have other more urgent things to be worrying about right at the moment." Mizuiro's bland tone belied the fact that he was as tense as the others, as he eyed the two men in front of him.

Chad, towering over the three of them like a dark rock, merely grunted his assessment of the situation they were in, and instead moved a hairsbreadth closer to Ichigo's left arm.

The four of them were clustered together in a tight-knit square, their backs to each other, facing a dozen or so men armed with swords that were aimed at their very tender fronts. Ichigo cursed yet again at the foolishness of men and their urges, both Keigo's urge to bring them to a disreputable brothel, and his own urge to throw a particular person against the wall. And as Mizuiro pointed out, neither would serve his purpose at the moment.

It was either try to reason or fight their way out, and fighting was not an attractive option, at least, not for the supposedly genteel Emissary from Essos. "If it is our coin that you require, we would gladly part with it." He untied his pouch from his side and threw it at the likeliest leader.

"Aah, but ser, we would'a gotten that anyway, with or without your _glad_ consent," the man spat to the side and grinned at him, his voice mocking Ichigo's learned speech. "We had it the moment you and your friends went through the door, lookin' to feel up some Westerosi skirts."

Ichigo scowled even harder. They were in the drawing room of the brothel. Its grimy walls were far too close in, its decrepit windows shuttered from prying eyes, and its one door firmly blocked by the brigands. There was no help for it; they would just have to cover their ears. "Mizuiro," he said in soft warning, indicating his consent.

The most diminutive of them, and the most deceptively dangerous, nodded imperceptibly, and surreptitiously slipped his right hand in his vest.

Keigo, noticing the movement, started immediately wailing, consequently calling the men's attention away from their friend. "But Ichigoooooo! I am far too young and dashing to die in this place. I have not even tasted the forbidden fruits of womanhood. I cannot die a _virgin_!"

The brigands glanced at each other in stupefied silence at this declaration. Keigo, sensing he had a captive audience, continued. "Certain persons are already questioning my bedroom preferences. Could they not see my virility, sense my overpowering charisma?"

"Mayhap they see your virility spilled on your sheets every morn, and sense your overpowering desperation in bedding anything that will comply to lie still," Ichigo bit back.

"Aah, 'tis no shame then, for it seems you know what I speak of."

Ichigo violently refrained from turning to his side and bashing his head in. "What I know is that I am taking the coin I lost today from your hide in the next quarter of a candlemark. _Now_, Mizuiro!"

Mizuiro, short dark hair styled close to his chin, bobbed his head as he swiftly threw something to the side. A loud explosion reverberated throughout the small room, eliciting screams and general confusion. The four of them took advantage of the chaos by entering the melee. Ichigo threw a vicious punch and followed it with a swift kick at the thieves' leader, earning a satisfying groan. He did not have time to savor his triumph, however.

"Chad! Grab a hold of Keigo. Mizuiro should be on his way out already." He shouted over the din, as he fought his way through. Smoke was starting to fill up the confined space, and he did not want to inhale whatever poisons that damned alchemist used in those thunder throwers.

Finally, he was able to smell the sewage stench from the cobbled streets outside, instead of the stale ale and even staler sweat stench from inside. He glanced around and spotted his friends, with Mizuiro already running ahead and gesturing for them the way out of the maze of streets.

They ran heedlessly through throngs of people, knocking about anyone who stood too long in their path. Behind them, the thieving crew, largely recovered and mostly unharmed, was running just as fast. Ichigo knew that the thieves' overriding impetus to buy their silence with their blood pushed them to their limits. It may have been lucrative to rob a foreign envoy, but it was still a hanging offense, or at least a lifetime with the Black, which was much the same.

Finally, they left the squalid rows of houses and came upon a somewhat cleaner market square. He thought it might be one of many that led to the Starry Sept in the center of town. They could stand their ground here, and possibly attract the attention of the roving Watch.

As one, the group turned around to face their pursuers, anchored their legs for better balance, and readied themselves in Heron Looks Over Water stance. Ichigo glanced at each of his companions. Of the four of them, Chad, long dark wavy hair framing a pit fighter's face, again positioned himself close to Ichigo's left flank. Mizuiro, effeminate-looking and smiling with amusement, stood easily to one side, protecting their back. Keigo, messy hair and twitchy eyes, nervously hopped from one foot to another. Not one of them carried weapons, as ordained by the High Septon for all emissaries visiting Oldtown. A decree that Ichigo now found to be extremely inconvenient.

"Ho, there! Seems like someone's having a bit of fun, eh?"

Ichigo glanced towards the new voice. It was a gaunt looking man in colorful court attendant garb, straight blond hair veiling a grinning face. He was standing protectively in front of an ornate closed carriage. Around him clustered a motley group of seven other individuals, three of which were women.

"If it is fun you are after, friend, then best get on to the tourney being held for the Valyrian prince. I do not think these are people that you would enjoy drinking ale with." Ichigo silently urged them forward. It was going to be messy in the next half candlemark or so, and he did not want to have to look after innocents.

"Aah, well, see here, _friend_, that was our destination, but you are somewhat blocking our way. Mayhap it would be faster if we assisted you in your own celebration first, before we attended ours?"

"Much obliged, but I fear you are not well equipped for this revelry."

The man snorted, obviously amused. "I think we are better equipped than you and yours."

Ichigo stared hard at the new group again, and noticed for the first time that beneath their attendant attire, they all wore hardened leather hauberks, even the women. They also all carried steel tipped staves. It seemed like they go about masking their true strength, he thought. In the murky political waters of Westeros, it was a thought that needed to be tucked away for future contemplation.

"Besides which, our lady insisted that we help you in your grand endeavor," the man continued. He then rolled his eyes, "the Mother's charity is definitely _not_ my favored virtue of the Seven."

At that, Ichigo tried to peer into the shuttered carriage they guarded. His curiosity was definitely most piqued. "Well, if you and yours are going to help, may as well start." He turned towards the leader again, who by that time was looking nervously at the newcomers and was gauging the wisdom of fighting or fleeing. "What say you, ser?"

"See here, you dunno what business we're having here. Be off with you, and we'll leave you be."

In response, the blond man merely grinned wider, and hefted his stave. "As you say, may as well start."

A blur of motion. A slight widening of eyes. An intake of panicked breath. And the thwacks of wood and flesh against steel and flesh suddenly sounded throughout, mingled with strangled screams.

Ichigo, dodging a vicious swing, jumped back and collided against the carriage. He heard a yelp and a vicious curse from inside. That was funny, Ichigo mused, he never thought that particular word was spoken anywhere but in the seedy wharves of the Stepstones.

"My apologies, milady, I was merely trying to call your attention to my agility." He was a little surprised at his own forwardness. It was usually Mizuiro who had a way with women. But something about parrying lethal attacks rushed the blood to his head, and made him reckless. He swung a kick at his opponent's leg, and crouched in Snake Hunting Prey position to better avoid the sword swings.

"I do not think I can overlook you, not with that bright head of hair. Why, it fairly hurt my eyes, and prevented us from seeing the road we were on."

Startled at the strong female voice from within the carriage, Ichigo unconsciously held up a hand to his closely cropped hair. It was a bright shade of orange, for which he had been teased mercilessly, and which he had long ago learned to ignore. Then why did this woman's jibe suddenly affect him so? He scowled at the direction of the carriage door. "If you were not peering at me so through your door, milady, then perhaps you would not have bumped your head."

There was a sudden intake of breath and an overheard mutter of 'impudent'. He guessed correctly then, an impish smile forming on his lips. She _was_ watching him. "I was merely making certain you did not stain my carriage with your blood, good ser, seeing as agile feet and an equally agile tongue seem to be your only skill in battle." His smile immediately went away.

He grabbed another opponent's head and slammed it against his raised knee. "I also seem to have agile knees as well. I just seem to be brimming with agile appendages."

He heard a muffled snort from inside. A snort? From a lady? Curiouser and curiouser.

All at once, however, the fighting ceased. The two men he had been fighting looked around at their fleeing comrades, and started running as well.

Keigo, as Ichigo expected, started crowing about his battle prowess. Chad looked him over, and nodded to him. Mizuiro just shrugged his shoulders. The eight sellswords – for that was what they undoubtedly were – started walking back to him and the carriage.

"That was a nice bit of entertainment, eh, Lady Rukia?" called out a diminutive female figure, blond hair held back from her face in two buns. She eyed Ichigo askance when she approached, "what are you still doing here? Off with you and your play skirts."

"Please do not mind her, Hiyori does not look right in a skirt, and she always takes it against anyone who likes them on women." The blond man, whom Ichigo took for the leader of the crew, patted the other's head much like with a child.

The woman started spluttering and shouting obscenities, while the rest of the group ignored the bickering. Ichigo, however, had not forgotten the occupant of the carriage. He sidled up closer to it, and placed a hand against the wood. "If it matters somewhat, I was not playing with skirts as your sellsword implied."

"No, you were merely being chased by what was obviously a brothel's hired arms for their own amusement. Your agile _appendages_ were never near inside said brothel."

He coughed suddenly to cover his flummoxed gape. That last sentence had a slight bit of coloring that he did not know if he could attribute to an innocent rebuttal of his earlier remark, or to a more cunning courtesan's double-edged wit. "Perhaps I can better prove my innocence by letting you see my face fully?" He smiled as he reached for the door handle.

A large hand covered his own, and he looked up to see an extremely wide genial man looking down at him. Behind him, he felt a sudden quiet descend on the group. "I apologize, ser, but I was tasked with blocking all entry to the carriage. And I do not think it is appropriate for you to see Lady Rukia."

Ichigo slowly released his hold and help up his hands to the eight figures that suddenly loomed around the four of them. Somehow, unlike the first one, he knew this was not a fight that he could easily win. "It was my own mistake. I was too overtaken with the lady's voice and banter."

He stood back as the sellsword company clustered once more around the carriage, and started towards the center of town. His friends joined him in his vigil of the carriage's procession. It was, of course, Keigo that broke the silence. "You must be spending too much time with Mizuiro, Ichigo, you are starting to chase after women."

Mizuiro quirked an eyebrow. "Alas, not enough time. For the women I chase usually end up in my bedchamber, not in a carriage blowing dust in my face."

The raucous laughter that followed was enough to make Ichigo rue men and their foolish urges, both his urge to throw Mizuiro against a wall, and his own unexplained urge to see Lady Rukia.

**~o~**

**TOUSHIRO**

Toushiro Hitsugaya gazed at his reflection in the looking glass, as he reached out a hand towards the false image.

He dropped his hand, the shards of cold green eyes gazing back at him hardening. He looked at his hair, silvered in the streaming light that crept into his chambers. He scrutinized his slight build, still not mature at age sixteen. And lastly he checked his eyes. They were still the same.

"That looking glass will crack if you scowl at it so, and you know how difficult it is to transport anything from Valyria to this gods-forsaken backwater land."

He spun around to glare at the new voice. Matsumoto would be the only one who would dare disturb him in his own chambers. She stood by the door, idly resting against the frame, her long blond hair falling in waves around her face, her gown clinging and teasing the eye with her generous chest.

A chest that she had used to smother him repeatedly during her enthusiastic embraces when he was a child, he remembered with not a little irritation. "As my High Steward, Matsumoto, you really should remember to ask permission before entering my room. I could have been in the middle of dressing myself, or worse."

Matsumuto snorted disdainfully. "I _have_ seen worse." She walked towards the tall windows that graced the western side of the room, overlooking the town. Oldtown was the center of power for the major religion in Westeros, the Faith of the Seven, and as such exhibited the qualities of all faces of its deities, Father, Mother, Maiden, Warrior, Crone, Smith, and Bastard. It had seven guard towers dedicated to each aspect, with each quadrant forming a neighborhood: The Seven Faces. And at the center of the town was the Starry Sept, a fortified keep that housed the Most Devout, the highest council for the Faith of the Seven, and arguably the very center of power in middle Westeros.

Toushiro turned away from her, a little disconcerted at the memory she brought back of that particular night. To recover his dignity, he took the ivory tabard that was given to him as a gift when he first visited Westeros, and clasped it around his shoulders. "Then you would not mind seeing much worse, then, including the sight of my back as I escape from this drudgery."

"My Lord! You have a tourney wherein you are the honored guest. I hardly think that-"

"Matusumoto, I know that I need to make an appearance at this ridiculous event, but it does not mean I should take pleasure at such debauchery." He finished tying the laces of his coat, and stepped towards the doors to his freedom, when he felt a hand at his right shoulder.

"Lord Hitsugaya," her voice skimmed against his ear, light as summer birds, "cast your mind from Valyria, it is as dead to you as the Children are to these Westerosi."

His breath hitched, his muscles tensed, and his face shadowed even more by the light that streamed through the exquisite stained glass that graced his rooms. "Valyria is my home."

"It _was_, my lord," she whispered back. "With your eyes, and your dragon, they will never accept you as one of them."

Toushiro Hitsugaya, Tenth of his name, stole a glance once more towards the looking glass. His eyes sparkled in the brilliant light of the noon Westerosi sun, but it did not mask the utter desperation, the profound loneliness, engendered by its very existence. Green eyes. Eyes the color that was not of his own kin. Eyes that he inherited from his grandmother. Eyes that marked him as utterly, and irrevocably, different.

I might as well ask for the moon, it seems a much more achievable notion than wishing for a place where I truly belong. "My cousins in Valyria and in Dragonstone may not accept me as one of them, seeing as they threw me to the Westerosi nobles as soon as they can, but I still represent the glories of Valyria. I will not behave in a way that would bring shame to my House. I will be present for the tourney festivities, as much as it pains me."

Matusumo sighed, defeated. She nodded and let him go to the place she knew she could always find him when he was in such melancholy moods. In the mews with his dragon, the only ice element dragon known to the world of fire dragon Valyria. The dragon that marked him as different, the dragon that marked him for exile.

******~o~**

**YORUICHI**

"So you are certain you were not delayed because you were having a dalliance with this fellow you bumped into?" Yoruichi snickered playfully.

"O-of course, not! Princess Yoruichi, that is most-" spluttered Rukia.

"Uh uh," Yoruichi waved a finger at her ward, although she doubted that Rukia could see the gesture from behind the dressing curtain. "I have told you to call me Yoruichi, or Lady Yoruichi, if it really distresses you to refer to me so familiarly."

The figure behind the gauze curtains stopped briefly, and then continued on with her preparations. "I apologize, Lady Yoruichi. It seems my tutor's teachings in Rhoynish customs had been too deeply ingrained in me, that I had forgotten your wishes for a moment."

Yoruichi cackled, she could not help it. The little Northerner was just too rigid, she could not help teasing her a little. "I was not offended, little snow hare. Dornishmen do not stand for formalities, even when I was still one of their nobility. However, I do not think these godsworn septons would take kindly to being reminded that an exiled Dornish princess is living amongst them." Or that she is not under their thumb, she added silently.

"I doubt they would take kindly to me either," was the quiet reply.

Yoruichi's gold-flecked eyes hardened as agates. She still could not decide whether she could ever forgive Byakuya for what he did to his sister, and what his sister would be forced to do. Sometimes she wished she had done more to the arrogant noble bastard than to beat him in _shunpo_ and tease him mercilessly with his loss. Sometimes she wished she had grabbed his long hair and given his rump a resounding beating instead. It might have taught him something other than one's duty to one's House. She decided to change the topic instead.

"Recite to me the tenets of the Art."

"I know it by heart, Lady Yoruichi, I really do not think-"

"Humor me, Rukia."

The younger girl sighed, and started reciting in a practiced voice. "The Art of Zanpakutou was handed down the generations of First Men, from the very mouths of the Children of the Forest. It is the art of singing and of," a very slight pause, "dancing. It is based on the Children's legacy of lost songs and dances, it is a reminder of our tangled connection with nature."

Yoruichi kept silent, waiting for Rukia to continue.

"It is the ability to mesmerize with the arts."

Yoruichi nodded, finally satisfied that her ward's fierce determination, the spark that had kept the girl alive during the long cold months of her childhood, has re-surfaced. "And mesmerize them you will. You will have the whole court under your heels."

The curtain fell away, and Rukia stepped into the room wearing her robes. "I need only do it to one man."

******~o~**

**URAHARA**

Urahara Kisuke was a careful man, and as such he positioned himself close to a side door in the Main Hall.

From his position, he could observe the flower of Westerosi nobility gather for the night's entertainment. The tourney events for the day had passed, and the accolades had been duly awarded.

The guest of honor for the tourney, for which brave knights had repeatedly bashed each other's heads in, was sitting by the main table. He was attended by his High Steward, a breathtakingly beautiful woman with long blond hair and a body that drew the eyes of every male that was at least half awake.

Urahara's own eyes, however, were drawn to the young Valyrian. Urahara wondered what he thought of the bloody events that were celebrated in his honor that day. As far as he knew, they did not practice the Andal tradition of gleefully breaking another man's nose in the name of glory.

He wiped at the sweat on his brow, and attempted to cool himself with a Yi Ti paper fan. The unusually long summer season was not helped by the prolific number of sweaty bodies that crowded the Starry Sept's Main Hall. The sept, after all, was not intended for rowdy celebrations by the High Houses, but was rather built for the quiet contemplation of the godsworn.

Urahara's smile became brittle as he looked over at their host. Sosuke Aizen was young to be the High Septon. It was even more unusual that he rose to such prominence without being originally part of the Most Devout, the council that led the Faith of the Seven. He had the genial smile and the small metal scales on a leather thong around his neck that spoke of his devotion to the Father. His eyes were quietly hidden behind a pair of Valyrian spectacles, small rounded wire frames that held graded glass and were placed on the bridge of a nose to aid in sight.

Urahara doubted, however, that Sosuke had any problems in seeing, particularly in seeing any stumbling blocks to his own ambitions.

His own sight veered back to the reason for this whole affair. He had received as much information as he could from his own spies on the young prince, especially his unique status as an undeclared exile. The Valyrians, in their haughty disdain for the rest of the known world, would not stoop to air out their dirty laundry to the whole continent. No one in the gathering, therefore, knew that the prince was not a welcome member to their ranks. No one, at least, except possibly Sosuke Aizen.

Hence the source for Urahara's slight irritation. He had hoped to be able to hold this in the slightly more tolerant atmosphere of the Northern keeps. As it was, they would be performing one of the lost Arts right within the heart of power of one of the most oppressive religions in Westerosi history. He knew even Yoruichi's status might not help their ward tonight. She would be all on her own.

He eased the white-knuckled grip he had on his fan. He just had to trust her, their little snow hare. It was the last night that the prince would be in Westeros. After tonight, he would be travelling onwards to the Freeholds. They needed to delay him here.

He drew in a sharp breath when he saw Shinji come into the hall, followed by his seven comrades. They were carrying various instruments, drums of animal hide, the most massive of which was gently handled by the giant Hachigen, two wooden flutes, a lute strung with sheep gut, a bone horn. None of it contained any trace of iron.

It was time.

Urahara Kisuke was a careful man, and he had the ability to step back in the shadows and escape notice, but when need called for it, he can call attention to himself in the most outlandish way.

"My good sers! Ladies!" All heads quieted down and turned to him. His arm was raised, and the fan, its many colors catching the eye, was held open for everyone. "As part of the group that came down from the North, we wished to present a gift of entertainment to our guest, Prince Toushiro Hitsugaya." He nodded to Shinji.

Hiyori Sarugaki started with the smallest drum, a slow melody, barely a whisper above a heartbeat. A space cleared in the middle of the crowd, right in front of the main table. Right in front of the prince. Rukia was standing there. It called to mind the Stillness of a Night with A Full Moon.

No one knew how she came to be there, she was just there. She was veiled completely, her robes immaculately white. The robes covering her seemed to be stitched together from fog, wispy fragments flowing over her small figure. The beat continued. She started to sway. The Clouds Descend In the First Cold Breath.

Love Aikawa started the second drum. Rukia lifted both arms and extended them in front of her. The motion exposed her hands and wrists, and she executed a series of flurried waves with both her hands. The movement spoke of the Deer, the Elk, the Owl, the Wolf, and the Snow Hare, Cocking An Ear to the Sound of the Night.

Rojuro Otoribashi placed his lips on the first flute and started to play. Rukia extended a leg to the side, and followed the motion with her hands. She swayed in an arc, maintaining her balance on a single upraised foot. The motion exposed her feet, bare to the earth and its elements. The Heavens Weep with Cold Tears.

Lisa Yadomaru drew in a breath and blew into the second flute. Wind of Frost Blows Through the Mountain Valleys. Rukia slowly spun in a circle, while stepping to the side. The circle widened around her, as the other guests instinctively acceded to her that she was untouchable, unreachable. Rukia stepped to the side again and again, a movement subtly faster, subtly more out of breath, than the last one. Her robes formed and twirled around her, whispering against her lithe figure, drawing the eyes to the lines and curves shaped by her presence. A shiver ran down everyone's spine.

Mashiro Kuna, grinning vacantly, started tapping against the wooden pipes. Rukia's movements sped up. And then suddenly the music and the movement stopped. A slight gasp was heard from the back of the room. From Rukia's outstretched hand, part of her white sleeve fell down in a gentle breeze. It showed a hint of ivory skin. First Snow Falling At Night.

Kensei Muguruma sounded a blast from the horn, signaling the Beginning, or the End. Rukia jumped to the side with a dainty leap, one foot landing, and the next quickly following. From her outstretched arms moving in a blurring motion, from her hips swaying side to side, pieces of her robe would flutter to the ground. Storm of Snow Come At Last.

A crashing boom was heard from Hachi's massive drum. Thundering, echoing, blasting through the other sounds. Furious Gales Howling From the North. Rukia leapt higher, spun faster. The pieces of fabric were falling from her in a chaotic windstorm. Breathless, Fearless. A flower on the edge of the snowy precipice screaming defiance into the wind. More than one lady screamed.

Shinji's lean fingers strummed the lute, and the rhythm joined the others, bringing all of them together. Winter Has Started. The beat crashed against everyone's chest, leaving them subconsciously bracing themselves against the onslaught. The melody ripped through everyone, leaving them shivering. And Rukia danced.

She spun in a circle with her arms outstretched, jumping from one spot to another. Soft silk started to pile by her feet. Her veil, however, was still firmly in place.

The music started its climb to its crescendo, peeling back the clouds, echoing the stars as they started to come out. Rukia stood in the same spot where she started, right in front of the prince, spinning in a dizzying motion, fabric frantically flurrying around her.

When all eight instruments reached its peak, Rukia abruptly stopped, garbed in nothing but a wispy snow-white shift. The music was hushed.

Rukia raised a hand to her veil, smoothly ripped it off, and looked up to the prince.

Her voice resounded throughout the crowd. "I am Lady Rukia of House Kuchiki from the Kingdom of the North." Urahara heard several women collapse in a faint, but they were hardly given any notice.

Everyone's attention was on the ephemeral beauty that stood before them. For Rukia Kuchiki was a name that had been whispered of in the Westerosi royal courts. It was the name of the only noble that had not been previously presented to any Westerosi Court, the name of a young girl that had been adopted from the streets by the wealthiest Northern House, the name of a woman that had caused the biggest scandal in the High Houses and one House's downfall.

But Urahara knew the court's attention was not on the woman merely because of a name. They were all riveted on her because of something more far-reaching, more momentous. They were looking at her eyes. For Rukia Kuchiki, street rat, cloistered maiden, and shunned noble, had _lavender_ eyes. Eyes that were irrevocably, undeniably, beyond a shadow of a doubt, Valyrian.

And she had just offered herself to the Valyrian prince.

Urahara scanned the shocked crowd. Shocked was probably putting it mildly. Attendants and servants were loudly clustering around ladies that had fainted from the shock and outrage, young knights that were heady from bloody victory were leering and hooting at the figure in the middle of the crowd, and older, more cynical individuals were busy calculating the power plays that would come about from this night.

Urahara, however, focused on Prince Hitsugaya. _Ah_, there. The prince was renowned to be of short temper, which probably meant that he did not have complete control over his emotions. And Urahara noticed that the prince gave away his extreme interest from the tensed grip he had on his chair's arms, the way he leaned forward, the way his eyes were dilated, the creeping flush from his neck, and yes, the very slight bulge in his breeches that was only partially hidden by the table. Prince Hitsugaya was definitely interested in Rukia.

Urahara nodded imperceptibly to himself. Their work was done.

He idly scanned the crowd once more to further gauge the reactions that would come in the morning. And then he noticed another figure in the front. A young man with bright orange hair was leaning forward, concentrating on Rukia, disregarding the entire room of fools. It was not lust that he saw in the man's eyes. It was something far more disturbing.

Urahara Kisuke was a careful man, and he knew trouble when he saw one.

******~o~**

**RUKIA**

Rukia's heart was hammering against her chest, threatening to burst. Her unique brand of _zanpakutou_, Sode No Shirayuki, was extremely taxing. Yet she had practiced it for the past few moons and it should not be overly tiring for her. And still her heart insisted to pump like a runaway bellows.

Rukia suspected that it was not exertion that was causing her heart to beat incessantly, but terror.

She refused to let this needless emotion show on her face. She has finally come out of the shadows. She has finally made her play in the Great Game.

She was finally facing down the man that had murdered her brother.


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Kubo's treatment of war, at least so far in the Vandenreich arc, is somewhat similar (I thought) to Martin's in ASoIF. There are so many shades of gray in war's moralities, who are we to say what is right or wrong? Is the victor the only one allowed to proclaim they were waging a virtuous fight? If so, then it makes war all the more tragic, and all the more reason we should avoid it at all costs._

* * *

**~ Chapter 2 ~**

_There is a treatise on war that regards it not merely as a conflict of armaments, but predominantly as a conflict of righteousness. Each side submits its reasons as the most just, its suffering the most severe, and its retribution the most fair. It matters not, however; blood on either side runs just as red._

_an excerpt from A Story Time Forgot (GSY)_

**~o~**

**RUKIA**

Rukia Kuchiki closed her eyes and willed her nerves to quiet down. She breathed in, and breathed out. Feeling the icy calm finally fall like a mantle, she picked up the goat-hair brush and started to draw.

Once, when she had still been branded with the bastard's name of Rukia Snow, when she had no proper claim to a legitimate name, she would have looked down on the act of drawing as a waste of time. Time she could have spent scrounging for food in Inuzuri village.

Shortly after entering the House of Kuchiki, she had chanced upon her adoptive brother sitting quietly by one of the ponds that ringed the manor keep. He had in one hand a brush much like what she had now, and on a slab of wood a roll of parchment. His look of serenity and utter quiet had been so fascinating to her back then. Her brother had always been cold and distant. Yet on that day, she had seen a stillness on him that was not enforced or clutched like a shield, but was instead comfortably swathed like a warm quilt.

He had turned his storm cloud grey eyes on her then, and nodded for her to come closer. He had unrolled the parchment for her to see his own creations – a ground-hugging creature, a water plant. Not one of the lost Arts, but entrancing all the same. It was the day when she took up the brush herself, and started to learn how to draw.

"Milady, Ser Kisuke is here to see you," a voice called out from the door, pulling her out of her reverie.

"My thanks, Lisa, you may show him in." Rukia continued drawing, careful not to spill any of the ink on the rich dark wood of the table. The sitting room adjacent to her own chambers was furnished with a languid opulence that befitted her station as the last scion of the wealthiest Northern High House. The chambers, however, were still in the farthest wing of the keep, as far away as the godsworn can place her from the center of power, as also fitting of a scion from a House with no male heirs.

Urahara, of medium build and haphazardly shorn light hair, came in with the knowing smile that always seemed to take residence on his face. "Aah, you seem to be troubled, Lady Rukia."

She raised a quizzical eyebrow and remarked with just a hint of mockery in her voice, "I wonder why. I have just flown against all social conventions, risked being branded as a heretic by the most powerful religious group of the land, and started a maelstrom of political intrigue that could cause the fall of my House. Indeed, such trifling events should not make me worry at all." She lifted brush from parchment, breathed in, and out, and then continued drawing. "How did you know that I was disturbed?"

"Oh, it has nothing to do with your control of emotions, little snow hare," Urahara opened his paper fan to hide his obvious amusement, "it is just that whenever you are nervous or upset, you turn to," a slight cough, "_drawing_."

Rukia looked up at the merchant, seeing nothing but an innocent expression, which made her even more suspicious. "Was there something that you wanted to tell me? Apart from commenting on my skills at illustrations? It is rather getting on late and I would need to sleep soon."

He closed his fan and regarded her quietly before speaking. "Yoruichi just came in and wanted me to inform you. She overheard Prince Hitsugaya give the order to his steward to arrange an extension of their stay here."

Rukia kept silent, her brush still.

"The Valyrian prince also asked his steward to find out everything about you," Urahara continued.

Rukia nodded, causing the brush in her hand to dip slightly. "It has begun, then," she whispered.

Urahara stepped closer to her, any trace of amusement or quiet gone from his face, replaced instead with an intensity that she found disconcerting. "You can still leave, Lady Kuchiki, you can still choose to turn away from this path. After tonight, there will be no going back."

Rukia looked away, towards the gloom behind her windows. Glass was an expensive item in Westeros, requiring an arduous and delicate journey from the Valyrian Freehold. It was an item that framed the windows of only the most highly regarded rooms. Her present rooms only had wooden shutters to keep out the wind. She did not mind it so much, since she welcomed any relief from the long summer's heat.

In the Kuchiki keep, however, all the windows in her rooms had been framed with glass. Her brother Byakuya had made sure of it.

He had never remarked about it. Shortly after being adopted into his family, the smiths and craftsmen had politely informed her that they would be fitting her windows with glass. At the time, she had not even known the staggering cost behind it.

A gust of wind blew through her windows, and tried to snuff out the flame from the lamp burning on her table. It was one of many oil lamps that illuminated her room and kept away the darkness that lurked behind the windows.

She had only realized the cost of those glass-framed windows when she had been sent many years later to a Maiden's cloister, after the Shiba incident. Her rooms in the isolated cloister, as richly furnished as her Starry Sept chamber, had been bare of any glass to keep away the cold. When she had mentioned it in passing to the septas, they had summarily informed her of the expense that such a thing would incur.

It was also in the cloister where Urahara had spoken to her of her brother's murder.

Rukia looked down towards her hand, and noticed a slight tremble, causing a drop of ink to shake loose. "It is far too late, Ser Kisuke." She dropped the brush on the parchment she was working on, marring the delicate lines. "There was no other path open to me since I learned that my brother Lord Byakuya Kuchiki was murdered in Dragonstone by the Valyrians."

**~o~**

**AIZEN**

"Why not just kill the Valyrian prince, then?"

Aizen Sosuke turned towards Ichimaru Gin as they walked down a dimly lit corridor. "Come, come, Ichimaru, you are far too merciful," he rebuked the other man.

Ichimaru, his slender body undulating as he walked with an almost unnatural grace, his short silver hair framing his grinning face, softly giggled.

Aizen looked at him from the corner of his eye. Whenever the demented sept steward laughed like that, he always made sure that Gin was not standing behind him. Gin had that effect on most people. "Besides which, as much of an irritation as this prince and his new-found carnality is, I cannot set aside this opportunity with Dragonstone."

"Ah, yes, the prince and the object of his," a soft snicker, "_carnality_, little Lady Rukia." There was a hidden gleam in the other man's eyes that sent a satisfying shiver down the base of Aizen's spine. "That was quite a dance she did tonight, it certainly caught our young Hitsugaya's attention."

Aizen continued walking down the corridor, followed by Gin, their footsteps echoing down the passageway, announcing to no one their leisured approach. "If his tastes had limited itself only towards small, thin, dark haired girls, then it would have been of no consequence, and we could have easily satisfied his interests." A slight crease appeared on his brow. "But alas, the Lady Rukia has something else to her advantage. Her apparently Valyrian eyes."

"Ah, yes, Valyrians are infamous in their attraction with their own kind. Not for them the _carnal_ pleasures of variety."

"So they are," Aizen agreed. He continued in a tone that spoke of hours spent in divine instruction. "Prince Hitsugaya is currently in a precarious position. He has already been cast out from Valyria because of his mixed bloodlines. His Dragonstone cousins, however, as low ranked as they are in Valyrian royal society, cannot easily dismiss him. His position hence affords us with a unique opportunity to form relationships with Dragonstone and its ties to Valyrian trade."

"Trade? Are you now looking into being a merchant, High Septon Sosuke? The Father's scales has buckled under coin's weight, it seems."

Aizen merely smiled at Ichimaru, and with a casual, unhurried movement, slapped the other man with the back of his hand.

Gin was pushed nearly to his knees from the violent blow. A trickle of blood crept its way down a split lip. He never stopped smiling.

Aizen continued in his sermonizer's tone. "Ichimaru, if I had been a lesser man, I would have been greatly insulted by what you had just said. Yet since I seem to be one of the few that understand your sense of humor, I will let that comment pass." He nodded to himself, basking in the warmth of his own generosity. He never faltered in his step.

They finally came upon Aizen's destination, an iron door embedded against one side of the thick riverstone walls and ceiling, its bolt securely in place. Aizen deftly unfastened the bolt and opened the heavy door with the ease and familiarity of long use. He walked inside and smiled benignly at the sobbing man within.

"I b-beg you…milord," the man violently coughed, the iron shackles holding his arms and feet to the four corners of the narrow wall ringing like distant laughter. "I have…ch…children…please, milord!"

"Now, now, good ser," Aizen said. "You are interrupting my conversation with my friend here." He turned towards Ichimaru and regarded the other man with slight amusement. He was really delighted with the young steward. At a very young age, he had already shown such promise. And yet, with all the snake-like cunning that he had, Ichimaru was still only able to shake free a single thread from the intricate tapestry that Aizen was weaving. Aizen kept a sigh from escaping. It was really during moments like these when he truly missed Urahara Kisuke.

Ichimaru cocked his head to the side as he looked towards the grotesque and shackled man. "I remember you. Were you not supposed to attend to that Emissary from Essos? The one with the orange hair?"

The man's eyes lit up, hope filling it like sweet nectar. "W-we did…milord, you m-must believe," he coughed to the side, blood-laced spittle trailing down his grimy chin, "b-believe me!"

"But no one believes that you lie," Ichimaru smiled wider, "the High Septon only believes that you have failed."

Aizen finally was not able to keep the forlorn sigh from escaping his lips. "Ichimaru, you truly must desist from giving insult. Why would you think that this poor excuse of a brothel strongarm had failed?"

Aizen once again felt Urahara's absence. He would not have needed to show to Kisuke the cleft and weave of his great tapestry. He would not have needed to point out that the hand that held the coin, held everyone by the throat.

Instead, he turned away from the steward in dismissal, and flipped open a bulging leather pouch that waited for him on a table. "You may leave us now," he said, while removing the various iron implements from the pouch.

Behind him, he heard the soft giggle issue from the steward's lips, only slightly muffled by the increasing tempo of frantic wails from his other side. He turned to regard the silver-haired man with a raised eyebrow, as Gin spoke in a breathy voice, "as you wish, High Septon, I leave you to enjoy your own _carnal_ activities."

Aizen gave him a small satisfied smile. In that regard, he did not miss Urahara Kisuke's presence at all.

**~o~**

**ICHIGO**

"He appears to be merely a merchant," Ichigo said in a quiet voice, "and yet this man Urahara Kisuke is accompanied by an exiled Dornish princess and a wealthy Northern noblewoman."

"By those words, he has captured my highest regard, and he has stolen the respect that I had normally reserved for you," Keigo exclaimed.

Ichigo continued ignoring his friend. "Mizuiro, there must be something about that man. He seems highly suspect."

The four of them were standing over a low hill, overlooking Oldtown and the port it crowded against. It was the largest port in the Kingdom of the Reach, opening its arms to trade with the other kingdoms in the Westerosi continent, Essos, and the Summer Islands. The fertile land around it was shorn of any forest, much less the godswood that was so held dear by the faded Children of the Forest, blanketed instead with endless fields, lending the Gardener King the fame he deserved. When the Faith of the Seven arrived with the Andals, it was relentless in its purging of competing religions. Its bastion of power, therefore, could only have been erected in a land where there was no trace or remnant of old powers.

The lack of cool shade, however, lent to an intense summer heat, only barely relieved by the blanketing night. Most layabouts of the High Houses made a habit of going about during this time. To any outside observer, Ichigo and his companions were merely a handful of lounging noblemen escaping the strangling confines of the crowded keep. A more discerning eye might notice that their position afforded them the best view on any approaching person that could overhear their conversation.

Mizuiro sighed as he turned towards Ichigo. "I have been trained as your Ear, Ichigo, and my skills in this regard has never failed you before. I have ferreted out information that has served you well in the past." He dusted his immaculate shirt and refused to meet Ichigo's eyes. "But in this, I must admit defeat. That man slips from my grasp like a river eel."

"And he has defeated the relentless Mizuiro! Indeed, such a man worthy of adulation," cried Keigo.

"You truly earn your bread as Ichigo's Mouth, Keigo," said Mizuiro. "I only wonder whether you would fare better being an orifice from further down Ichigo's body."

Ichigo scowled at both of them, exasperation boiling over. "You," he pointed at Keigo, "are supposed to speak on my behalf and establish relations with these Westerosi. While you," he turned the accusing finger towards Mizuiro, "are the one that listens for the court gossip and keeps me abreast of Westerosi political waters. Instead I receive nothing but threats from brothel strongarms and hear nothing but idle chatter."

"Ichigo," Chad called out to him, his voice soft and deep as an overlooked well. "We were not sent here for merchants, however unusual their company may be."

Ichigo turned away from Chad, unable to meet the other man's knowing gaze. He did not need to ask Chad if he knew. Of the three of them, Chad, his Eye, the man he entrusted to watch his back, surely knew the real reason he was doggedly asking after Urahara Kisuke. It was because of Rukia Kuchiki.

That first memory of her voice, amused and full of challenge, seemed like a breath of fresh cooling air to his skin. An image of her, staring defiantly at the whole room, filled him with an indefinable emotion that started from the pit of his stomach and worked its way to cloud his mind. He was merely curious about the girl.

Keigo muttered something under his breath that sounded close to _love-struck fool_, but Ichigo thought he must have been imagining it.

Chad continued speaking, "your father has tasked you with this. You should not turn away from our true goal to pursue other ends."

Surprisingly, it was Keigo who spoke up for Ichigo. "I do not know, Chad." His brows scrunched up in concentration. "Kisuke, and particularly Lady Rukia, has attracted the attention of the Valyrian prince. We _should_ find out all we can about her."

"Well, well, a kernel of wisdom from such an unusual source," Mizuiro said with a raised eyebrow. "I see what you are implying. This Northerner is trying to gain royal favor, and so we must take advantage of it." He paused. Ichigo could almost sense the friendly jab that he knew would come. "If you really wanted to find out about the girl, Ichigo, all you need do is ask."

Ichigo scowled even harder, and refused to look at his friend. He would not sink so low as to ask after a girl.

The pause was excruciatingly long.

Ichigo finally looked over at Mizuiro, his glare burning daggers. "Well? Have you found anything about her?"

Mizuiro chuckled, obviously amused. "She is the only surviving member of House Kuchiki, which as you know is the wealthiest noble house under the banner of the King of the North. Due to the antiquated Andal laws, she cannot inherit the title since she is female. She is therefore currently the most sought-after lady in Westeros. Her hand will bring to her betrothed the Kuchiki title, lands and holdings."

"And the dance?" Ichigo bit out.

"A ruse, obviously. Were she to run to her King for a suitor, he would certainly scheme to try to get at the Kuchiki wealth himself. The same would be true of any other Westerosi royal court, and I doubt her King would look kindly on her pandering to another banner. With an outside authority presiding over the choice, or even possibly allowing her the freedom of choosing her own suitor, she ensures that she can keep control of the House. And the Valyrian is enough of an outsider, and yet holds enough of a sway over the Westerosi Houses, that he may be able to help her if he so chooses." Mizuiro nodded, a slight smile hovering on the man's lips. "It really is brilliant, if I have to say so myself."

Ichigo looked up to the waning sky, seeking solace from the rising moon. He could not understand why a burning rage was making its way to his face at Mizuiro's conjectures. "If she is after the Valyrian's favor, then all the more reason we establish ties with her."

He sensed Chad move silently behind him, and felt his grip on his shoulder, as if he were holding him back from something. "She seems to be part Valyrian herself. Something that you should never lose sight of."

Ichigo did not waver from his vigil of the night sky, and instead addressed the cautionary note in his friend's voice. "Her eyes are Valyrian, but it does not make her an enemy."

Chad's grip on his shoulder tightened. "Your father and the priestesses have sent us to seek a way from Valyria's deathly hold. Any one, noble or peasant, who bows to that banner is our enemy."

Ichigo remained silent. He stubbornly refused to look at his friend. Instead he looked towards the moon, bathing in its silvery light.

Chad continued, his voice like the bellows, like the dark tolling of the death bell. "And the priestesses have divined the young Prince Hitsugaya as the linchpin in Valyria's downfall. Any one, beautiful woman or not, who consorts with the prince can never be an ally to us."

Ichigo saw the moon glide into shadow behind gathering clouds. He felt even more keenly how distant it was. The feral wind that summoned the clouds breathed down on him. He realized with some regret that summer was taking its leave. Autumn was approaching.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Why were the Targaryens in Dragonstone? If Valyria was such a center of cultural and political power, then this place would seem like the boondocks, and being sent to it would seem like social exile. In this version of the multiverse, I made the (__intuitive?__bold?__risky?)__ assumption that if I were an exiled member of an all-powerful society who ended up with all the cards (uhhurm, dragons) and went on to conquer a whole continent, then I would probably rewrite history and declare that I was a "pioneer" and that I was just scoping out the land for expansion._

_ACK: Thank you to the ones who have reviewed and saved this story as a fave/alert. I am trying to set myself a deadline, and hopefully, I should be able to update every week(ish) from now on._

* * *

**~ Chapter 3 ~**

_Ah! Valyria. With your topless towers that mock the sky; your dragonlords that conquer the horizon; your wonders of art and magic that dazzle the senses and humble a whole continent. _

_Ah! Valyria. You ride the bright Heavens while we plod in the muck of earth. You sip sweet Nectar while we choke on stagnant water. You hear divine Symphonies while we listen to each other's moans of despair._

_Ah! Valyria. To Fall from the clenched hand of a single person._

_ - an excerpt from A Story Time Forgot (GSY)_

**~o~**

**TOUSHIRO**

He dreamed of his dragon.

Toushiro Hitsugaya, the Tenth of his Name, had been given a dragon egg during his seventh summer. Instead of merely inheriting one of the older House dragons, his status and wealth afforded him his very own dragon egg, ensuring a higher degree of loyalty once it had hatched.

He remembered it well, the day he was given the egg, and the night it hatched.

He had been building castles with Hinamori, his Freeholder play nurse, only a few summers older than he. He had looked up to her shining face, dark hair tracing the simple lines of her profile. His lips had twitched in a smile, and sweet laughter had burst out from him.

Receiving an egg was an occasion of great import, and hatching it was the mark of entry into adulthood.

His laughter had echoed in the empty space. And then the sound had been cut off by hollow footsteps. Pressure from his back had spun him around, and something hard had been pressed against his hands. Ceremonial words had been uttered, _blood legacy_ and _silent contemplation_ and _sacrifices of maturity_, mere babble to a child.

Dragons were the font of power for Valyrians. Raising and taming them were the ultimate badges of status in the brutally civilized Valyrian society. Lack of dragons was tantamount to being a Freeholder, or worse, a Westerosi.

He had paid no heed to the words. He had merely turned back to Hinamori and dropped the egg to the side. His laughter had echoed again, in answer to hers.

But mastering dragons held a secret that Valyrians either disguised or kept from everyone else, including their young. To hold sway over a dragon's life, you needed to give up someone else's.

He had been screaming for what seemed like ages. Hinamori had been bound up. The egg had been placed on her chest. She had looked up at him, as he held the dagger over her, as other hands held his. Vicious whispers had pummeled him from both sides. _Need…do this…erase the taint…your eyes_. She had smiled. Hinamori. His play nurse of many summers, more than he could count. She had smiled, and had mouthed the words in High Valyrian. _All men must serve_.

The knife had plunged down, and the flames had consumed her. And the egg had hatched.

As he watched the fire burn and the eggshell crack, he held his bloody hand to his face, and felt his mouth terse, shrink into a grim line. At the same time, he felt cold moisture against his palm, staining his hand. He had been crying, and he had not noticed.

The cold tears had washed over the dragon egg as it hatched, as it broke free. Its breath, instead of the warm fires it had woken into, had been cold, cold as the mist at night, cold as the graveyard pits.

He dreamed of his dragon, Hyorinmaru.

He mounted him, and they flew the skies together, and breathed in the clouds together. His mouth was silent, a knife slash on his face. Hyorinmaru undulated under him, eager to please, eager to serve. His hand clenched against Hyorinmaru's harness, the blood pooling out, staining his skin white. Hyorinmaru danced under him, soaring through the heavens, challenging the gods.

But slowly, slowly, Hyorinmaru changed. Azure-tinted ivory scales into alabaster smooth skin. Serpentine head into raven hair. Reptilian eyes into lavender ones.

He was dreaming of her.

Toushiro woke up drenched in sweat. He struggled against the bedcovers and sat up in the gloom of early morning. Rain was softly but persistently falling outside his windows. He drew a ragged breath cooled by the rain, grateful for the respite from the long summer.

"The autumn rains have finally come, Lord Hitsugaya."

He squashed the sudden spike of irritation and glared at the source of the voice. "Matsumoto, I do not remember giving permission for you to enter."

One edge of her lip curled in amusement. She sidled up closer to him, and drew away the richly embroidered curtains that hung from the bed canopy. "Most probably because I did not ask for it." One of her eyebrows gradually rose, in the same way her tone of voice did. "Why, my lord, is that a _stain_ I see-"

"Have you anything to report, or do I need to physically push you out of my chambers?"

Matsumoto softly chuckled, holding a hand against her generous chest, as she turned away to allow him a moment to dress. She mumbled something that Toushiro did not quite hear, but thought sounded suspiciously close to _all grown up_. "I found a person that could give you more information on Lady Kuchiki. He was… _is_ someone I knew from Essos. He is outside in your drawing room."

"And this man could not meet at a more appropriate time?" His irritation was unwarranted, he knew, but he chose not to mask it.

"His position here does not allow him too many liberties."

His mouth tightened in its usual dour line. "Very well, does this shackled man have a name?"

"Ichimaru Gin, the High Steward of the Starry Sept."

Toushiro did not in the least take a liking to the sept steward. There was something in the man's cropped white hair, heavily lidded eyes, and wide, curved smile that unnerved and repelled him.

When he had come into the room, the sept steward had not been sitting in any of the offered chairs, but had instead been lounging next to a window, his arms crossed in front of him. Toushiro had felt Matsumoto tense, and he knew immediately that this Gin was not what he seemed. He dismissed Matsumoto to spare her the man's company.

He stiffly sat down and nodded to the man. As he listened, he fought his repulsion while the smirking man recited court gossip. He knew instinctively that he should not show any weakness in front of the other man. "And how is the Lady Kuchiki's prospects for suitors? If I were to help her keep the grubbing hands of the other nobles from her House's wealth, then I would need to find out who is suitable."

"My lord," Gin's sibilant whisper crept towards him, "_all_ Westerosi nobles should be suitable for a fellow noble like our little Kuchiki, unless you prefer someone from across the Narrow Sea?"

"Do not be daft," Toushiro retorted, "she would not present herself to my traveling court, after being hidden away for so long, only to wed any mere hedge knight. There must be some choice men that have presented themselves already."

"There was… an incident with the _former_ House of Shiba." Gin's smile, if possible, widened even further. "The male heir, who was happily married, was rumored to have been involved with her. House Kuchiki denied everything, of course. But their denials were drowned by the announcement that they sent Lady Rukia to a Maiden's cloister. Right before they ruined House Shiba, that is." A snigger escaped from Gin's lips. "Since then, there have been no Westerosi nobles of import to lay claim to the poor dear."

"The Lady Kuchiki," Toushiro stressed, "holds the keys to a vast wealth. Are you telling me that none of the Westerosi nobles have asked for her hand because of a mere unfounded rumor?"

"Aah, but those nobles need only wait. House Kuchiki, after all, is on its last legs. It has no male heirs to command the House wealth. The Northern King would have stripped all of it from her already if not for the unfortunate fact that her grandfather, Lord Ginrei, ancient and bed-ridden as he is, still breathes. As it is, once the doddering old fool is gone, the nobles can pick at the Kuchiki wealth as much as they please."

"Need I remind you that you are speaking of a lord above your station," Toushiro's voice was rimmed with ice. "This barbaric practice to only allow male inheritors is loathsome. I will see to it that she receives what help I can provide her."

Gin only nodded to him, the smile never leaving the man's face. "If that is all, my lord, I best be going. Sept matters, and all."

Toushiro turned away from him, already looking out the window. He wanted to ask the repulsive sept, but did not know how to broach the question.

It seemed the man knew what he wanted, though. "Lady Kuchiki was seen walking towards the Maiden's Tower."

Toushiro refused to turn back in acknowledgement. "I trust that you will be discreet about this conversation, Ser Gin?"

"Oh, _absolutely_, Lord Hitsugaya. You have my word as a trusted man on it."

He heard the doors finally close behind the steward. There was muttered conversation from beyond the ornate doors. Most likely Matsumoto reprimanding the man for his insolence, he thought.

He waited for a few more moments before resolutely nodding to himself and striding towards the doors himself. He would speak with her, and have this done with.

He found her in the tower.

She was not lounging or resting against the tall balustrade that ringed the top of the tower. Rather, she was standing rigidly, back towards the stone stairs that led down to the keep, face lifted towards something Toushiro could not see.

The Maiden's Tower, much like the other six towers in the sept, was built as a shrine to one of the Seven's aspects. A flimsy, but intricately carved, wooden dome was supported on several graceful stone posts. The carvings depicted spring garlands and chaste women holding aloft tall white candles. The tower served to let in the spring breeze, enticing stray leaves to dance, and at the same time protecting its visitors from light spring rains.

"I dislike the rain."

He started at her voice. He had thought that she had been unaware of his presence. He should have known that someone like her would always see true. "Why is that, Lady Kuchiki? It dispels summer's heat, which I have to admit I do not care for greatly."

"Much like tears release pent up sorrow."

He paused, suddenly unsure. "Mayhap. Why not take proper shelter away from it then? I was under the impression the ladies here did nothing but sit in their drawing rooms and embroider."

A soft laugh sounded from her. "Is that so? _Two_ activities to fill our days. While our men only ran around and served the world to us on a silver platter, I suppose. With tea and floured pastries, of course." She turned slightly, so that she presented to him a faint outline of her face and a hint of her mouth. Her eyes, however, remained hidden from him. The light that filtered through the rain cast her in silent shadow, so that he could not make out her expression. "I was never a conventional lady, my lord. Embroidery has yet to woo me. No, that is not true. It has chosen to run away in abject horror from my rough hands."

Toushiro made a disgruntled sound, refusing to believe that she had rough hands.

"I dislike rain, but I have always sought solace in the tallest places I could find." She turned away from him, and Toushiro could not help the flash of loss that he felt. "You see so many things laid out before you. There are no secrets, there are no hidden places."

"There are always secrets," he replied.

She paused, so still and unmoving, that she blended into the carved maidens that graced the dome. Suddenly, she let out a deep breath. "That is so."

Toushiro cursed softly under his breath. He wanted to snatch back his words, but he could not explain why. He moved towards the stairs, expecting her continued silence and offering her the courtesy of solitude, but was instead stopped short by her voice.

"I was not born to nobility, my lord." She faced him fully now. Still, the stolen light and her heavily lashed eyes refused to show her expression to him. "I was a bastard child, running in alleyways and in the muck of the streets. That was the only activity that filled my days then. My only companion was a half-breed wolf cub." A wistful smile flitted through her face. "His name was Renji."

He remained silent, loathe to interrupt.

"It was snowing, I remember that clearly. Light, clean snow that only seemed to fall in the North. That was when I first met a noble." A soft intake of breath shook her frame. "My brother Lord Byakuya, the Sixth of His Name."

Toushiro knew about the adoption from Gin, but he remained still.

"His face was so clean and bright. His hands… they were very soft. I remember that, although I had barely reached my seventh summer. He held a hand to my muddied face and whispered a name. That was the only time I felt the touch of his hand."

Toushiro noticed that her face became brittle, showing a vapid smile that would have passed inspection on another lady's face as insipid happiness. But not on her, he thought, never on her.

"Once I was adopted into House Kuchiki, I was introduced to all the pleasurable pursuits of nobility that filled their days. Riding horses, reading dusty manuscripts, _embroidery_," she inclined her head, "and meeting and bantering with the other members of the High Houses." The brittle smile graced her face again. "They always reminded me that I was no conventional lady."

Toushiro heard the echo of loneliness in her voice. Shards of memories pierced him. Whispers heard behind his back. Contemptuous looks thrown in his path. Faces turned away from him. "What of your wolf?" His words were dredged from his throat.

"House retainers had condemned him to the butcher's block. They were horrified of him, you see. He was a half-breed. Half wolf, and half direwolf."

Toushiro had heard of direwolves. They were horrendous beasts that grew into the size of small horses, thrived in the coldest snows, and mauled most anything that moved.

"I remember the day they took him. I was screaming. I was incoherent with tears. My lord brother stepped in front of me, between the smirking House retainers and I. He said, in that quiet voice that he had, that _a lady like you does not show her emotions_. It was my eighth summer, my second under House governance. But already I knew enough to stop short my sobbing. I looked on silently as they took Renji away. That was the only time I heard my brother describe me as a lady."

Silence shrouded both of them.

The rain fell heedlessly, unaware of their presence. Lady Rukia turned her face towards the horizon once more. And, once more, Toushiro could not see what it was she searched for.

"Would you like to see my dragon, Hyorinmaru?" he said, finally breaking the silence like glass.

**~o~**

**RANGIKU**

Rangiku Matsumoto was leaning against the closed doors to Lord Hitsugaya's drawing room, with an ear pressed tightly to the ornate wood, intently listening to the conversation within.

Oh, she knew that the young prince would have allowed her to attend his meeting with the sept steward, but it seemed a more exhilarating exploit to do it furtively. She smiled when she heard the prince declare that he would help Lady Kuchiki. The prince always approached responsibilities so seriously, as if a life were in the balance.

She stepped back quickly when she heard the sept steward make his way towards the doors. She leaned against the wall as innocently as any babe in swaddling clothes.

"I see you have not lost the habit of listening in on people's conversations, Ran," said Ichimaru.

She kept the irritation from marring her features at being found out in her ruse. Instead, she fluttered her eyelashes at him and said in a demure tone, "I beg your pardon, Ser Steward, I believe the correct turn of phrase is collecting information for my lord."

"Ah, of course, ensuring others' welfare has always been of utmost importance to you."

She paused, unsure in the direction the conversation was headed. "I see that _you_ have changed greatly. The position of Sept Steward is not one to come easily."

"No… no it is not."

He was looking away from her, refusing to meet her gaze. Rangiku suddenly felt afraid. She plowed on, babbling. "It seemed only a few moons ago since we had last seen each other! We were but children then, barely six or seven summers. Do you recall Kira, that slip of a boy that followed you like your own shadow? We had been running around avoiding the slavers, and fell into that pit that had a trove of dried fruit. We feasted for so many days! I do wonder sometimes what has hap-"

"It has been nigh two dozen summers, Ran. A lifetime on a Freehold alley." His eyes bored into hers, showing a depth that threatened to drown her.

She sighed. "Aye, that it has. And both of us have changed since then."

He stepped close to her, so close that their breaths mingled and joined. "No," they inhaled, and exhaled as one, "you are still the Rangiku that I remember."

By the time that she had collected her wits about her, he was already striding away.

She finally roused herself when Lord Hitsugaya passed a few moments later, nodding to her in a distracted manner. She followed him at a distance, already certain of the direction of his footsteps. He did not command for her to accompany him, but neither did he forbid her.

She had reached the landing that led to the Maiden's Tower, and was quietly applauding herself for reaching the place undetected, when she nearly jumped out of her skin in fright. A shadow passed in an alcove that led to a small porthole.

She looked wildly to either side, watching who else might be in the area, and who else might have interest in her lord. She finally breathed in relief when she noticed a black cat slink out of the dark crevices and blink slowly at her. She slowly put away the small knife she gripped in one hand and tried to calm her racing heart.

"You little hussy, you nearly cost me a good natter," she whispered. "Now go on, now, else we'd get caught, shoo!"

Strangely, the small animal only sat on its haunches and stared at her. She huffed as quietly as she could, exasperation boiling over.

"Oh, all right, come over here, both of us might as well hear what is going on up there."

Holding the silent cat in her arms, she climbed the uneven stone steps and tried to listen to her lord in his very awkward wooing. She should remember to scold him much later for that comment on embroidery. He was not normally so thoughtless in his banter. It seemed this Lady Kuchiki had a disconcerting effect on him.

However, Rangiku soon found herself revising her opinion on the young noblewoman. She did not merely have a _disconcerting_ effect on her young lord. No, nothing so insignificant a word would be able to encompass what had just happened. The young Lady Kuchiki had caused a fundamental shift in the heavens.

Her lord was surprisingly generous with her and his attendants. Whereas other Valyrians barely knew of their existence, he was free with the considerable wealth that he had inherited from his grandmother. He was as cold and haughty as the others, but he was never selfish. However, there was one thing that he held so adamantly and vehemently in his possession, locking it tight like a miser with his coin: his dragon.

And he is finally about to throw open the doors to that part of his being.

The surge of elation that rose up nearly overwhelmed her, causing prickling tears to blur her sight as she picked her way down the stairs to avoid detection. In her haste and joy, she missed the shadow that climbed down past the porthole that she had just left.

**~o~**

**ICHIGO**

Ichigo cursed all the gods that he knew, and offered a silent plea to his goddess, as he dangled in the air with only four fingers and a thumb supporting his weight.

He looked down, gauging the considerable distance to the ground beneath him, and cursed softly once again. He gripped the crevices in the mortar with his fingers, and deftly started the climb up the slick surface of the tower once more.

The woman had startled him, causing him to nearly lose the smooth rhythm that he had established in climbing along the side of the Maiden's Tower. He had found a likely place to start, a room midway in the tower that afforded him the concealment from prying eyes, and a window large enough to accommodate his lean frame. The blasted woman, however, had caught sight of his progress along the porthole just below the top of the tower. He silently gave thanks to the cat that distracted the woman and gave him back his surreptitious ascent.

He recalled the countless days spent in climbing similar places, once even along the side of one of Valyria's storied topless towers. He disliked skulking in this manner, preferring the more direct approach of gutting the person that threatened his family and friends. However, he did not wish to call on his Ear to perform this particular task. It would have been unseemly to gut his own friends once they start hinting at different courtship practices involving stringed instruments and belching bard's songs at the base of a tall tower.

He also disliked the rain.

He paused beneath the balustrade, and anchored his feet and hands against the stone, finding crevices with barely a thought. He heard their voices, soft and nearly masked by the light rain.

He chuckled at the boy's awkward attempts to engage conversation. _He_ had not forgotten the image of her as she danced. Embroidery was as nothing to a woman the likes of her.

The chuckle became muffled, however, when he heard the echo of loneliness and abandonment in her tone. As she recalled her days of entering House Kuchiki, his own memories assailed him.

Lightning-laced rain. Smell of new-turned soil. A woman's long wavy hair. Lines of laughter in her face vanishing. A scream of defiance. Blood. So much of it.

And in the distance the thunder of scaled wings.

He angrily pushed down the images, and turned back to listening to her fading voice. Silence had gripped the three of them, unwilling to let go. And then he spoke, the Valyrian. He spoke to her of his dragon, dangling it like a jewel.

Anger and hate rose up like bile in his throat, and he gritted his teeth against it. I will not hate. I will not hate. _I will not hate!_

Yet still the burn of anger raged on.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: As much as I love seeing Rukia interact with other Bleach characters, it is Kubo's treatment of her relationship with Ichigo that keeps me coming back and re-reading Bleach. There is a dynamic between the two that entices and enmeshes the mind. Early in Bleach, she treats him as a protégé, sometimes harsh, sometimes mocking. But this situation rapidly changes, becoming equals, becoming friends (maybe more?). And definitely one of the best scenes that highlighted this was Memories in the Rain. She initially pushed for information on Ichigo's mother's death, reverting to her militaristic training; but upon seeing the true pain reflected in Ichigo, something in her responded. And hence we have the famous speech that later would resonate in Ichigo's life (tl;dr "You don't need to talk"). I cannot imagine these two characters interacting in ANY universe without this kind of conversation. It is just so fundamental in the fabric of their characterization. If there is a multi-verse like Terry Pratchett implies, then the following chapter is how I imagine the MITR scene would happen if they were ever in pre-GoT Westeros._

_ACK: Thank you again for the reviews/faves/alerts, especially to my blood-betas __**MangKulas**__ and __**breadsticks**__ (yes, yes, breadsticks, I'm still counting your long rambling pm as a review, even though there is yet the unfulfilled promise of an official "I Approve" sticker from you). I know this story is late, but as you can see, I like fantasy; so please consider anything I say as purely spun from dreamstuff, particularly if it's in the author's note section (i.e. I'm a big fat liar)._

* * *

**~ Chapter 4 ~**

_Women are a curious breed. History has always taught us that their only place is by the hearth, their only weapon is a cooking pot. Common or nobly born, they are mere vessels for our heirs, a path to our ambitions through their hard toil or their dowries._

_But have you ever looked at a man whose trade or land is flourishing? Look closely. For there is always a woman by his side._

_- an excerpt from A Story Time Forgot (GSY)_

**~o~**

**ICHIGO**

Ichigo's vision was filled with rain and fire.

It was a curious thing, because in front of him lay a meandering brook traipsing through a glade heavy with the promise of autumn's harvest, cheerfully lit by a late morning sun, the clouds bunching like soft down. It was a vision of happiness for most people.

For Ichigo, all he saw was a young boy with bright orange hair, standing by a much wider river than the one in front of him, and a woman with long, wavy light brown hair, her back to the boy. The fire reflected in the boy's hair, and the rain caught in the woman's tresses.

He was very young when his father explained that in their old tongue, old before any man had claimed dominion over others, his name meant _to protect one thing_.

He had asked, why only one?

His father laughed and said in his usual churlish voice if Ichigo thought he had the stamina for more than one. In some distant part of Ichigo's mind, he knew his father had just made an inappropriate comment that his mother would chide him for had she known. In the next breath, however, his father lowered himself so that his eye was level to Ichigo's, and said, _you will know which one you will need to protect, and that will be enough_.

He was startled out of his reverie when he finally noticed a small figure in the distance, walking towards him. The outline of the body revealed a slight, slender woman, whose purposeful stride betrayed the strength in her limbs. Her dark hair was cut close to her shoulders, her long fine dress hugging her torso and arms, her skirts slashed through with bright white linen amid deep midnight-blue fabric, while flaring and teasing the eye with the shadow of her legs. He shook his head at this sudden fancy in fashion that was so unlike him.

It was Rukia.

He wanted to hail her, but he was not certain whether she would welcome his company. He scowled again as he remembered whose company she had been with earlier that morning. Better to sit unobtrusively and let her be on her way. She was obviously in a hurry, most likely to meet someone.

"There you are!" Rukia called out when she noticed him sitting on the grass. She sat down beside him without preamble, heedless of the grass stains on her immaculate dress. She turned her head to inspect him, while Ichigo slowly closed his gaping mouth. "You really should inform your friends where you plan on sulking, I had quite a time tracking you down."

"Excuse me, milady," Ichigo suddenly was very conscious that they were alone, "you must have mistaken me for some-"

"Oh, please do not pretend that you do not know me." One of her delicately shaped eyebrows was raised haughtily. "You are worse at lying than at spying on people, and that is saying quite a lot."

Ichigo had to pick up his jaw from the ground. Needless to say, he was a bit speechless.

Rukia continued, her gaze faraway and thoughtful. "Lady Yoruichi had mentioned that your friend – the short one? – was much better at listening in on people's conversations. She would hardly notice him. You, on the other hand, she scoffs as absolutely deplorable. And I daresay climbing a tower _is_ more foolhardy than secretive."

Ichigo ran through the morning's events quickly, trying to think how he had been found out. He easily dismissed the woman that had nearly startled him from his ascent of the Maiden's Tower. She was too busy scolding the cat, for one thing. For another, she was the Valyrian's creature, and he doubted that she would conspire with anyone against her master. He decided to bait Rukia to see what she knew. "I am surprised that you saw me at all, seeing as you were engrossed in your conversation with the princeling."

She gave him an incredulous look. "Anyone walking the grounds needed only to look up to see you dangling for your life. The prince's High Steward was more circumspect in her position by the door."

He scowled at her, discomfiture written on his face. "Most people who discover someone was listening in on their conversation would not be so light about it."

"Why would I take it to heart? Your business is with the prince, obviously. He can address that matter with you."

He almost exclaimed that his business could have been with her for all she knew, when his mind suddenly caught up with the words that nearly stole away from his mouth. He shut his mouth with a snap and glared instead at the girl in front of him. When he finally felt safe that his tongue would not betray him like a red fin on a greyling, he asked. "Was that why you spoke so abruptly to him then? To keep him from finding me?"

Ichigo was pleased to see that it was her turn to gape at him. "I… I merely thought of the bother it would cause if your body suddenly plunged into those azalea bushes. Red blood would have been a ghastly color on their petals."

Ichigo snorted, not in the least fooled by her blustering. "Why do you seek me, then? As you see, my bodily fluids are still well encased in my person."

He noticed the splotches of color on her face, and nearly groaned aloud in horror at his thoughtless words. He could not explain why the oddest things would come out of his mouth in their every encounter.

"What I meant was that I am perfectly fine, and hardly in need of your further protection," he amended in haste.

She arched an eyebrow. "Is that so? It seems to me that you are _perfectly fine_ with getting yourself into difficult situations at every opportunity, be it a common brawl or a precipitous drop." She batted her eyelashes at him. "Indeed, such a man that undergoes such daring exploits would have no need of any protection whatsoever. Your stubborn head is already proof to any injury."

Ichigo silently cursed evil vixens and the plague that they bring to honest men. Aloud, he muttered instead, "As you say, milady." If he were really honest with himself, however, he would realize that his short parries were no match to her rapier wit.

Her face was turned away, looking out towards the water. Ichigo suddenly had a hitch in his throat, as he felt a compulsion to look in the same direction. She spoke in a soft tone encased in iron. "This play with words is meaningless. I came here to speak with you because I felt it my duty. You toy with fire with the Valyrian. If you are not careful, your actions can lead to someone's death. And I fear it will be yours."

Visions of fire and rain.

His mother had been extraordinarily kind and gracious. The kind of person that inspired others to be better than they are, his father always said. She had helped his father with the sick in the fishing village that they lived in. She had toiled about the house and resolutely provided for Ichigo, his two younger sisters, and their father, amidst growing poverty and threat of starvation. She had also led trips into the heart of the Valyrian Freeholds to ferret out runaway slaves and offer refuge to them.

Until the day of fire and rain.

The memory was seared into Ichigo. Yet he could only grasp fragments of that long spring day, like shards of broken glass that cut desperate hands. She was standing in front of him, while he, a boy of barely nine summers and weak limbs, was lying helpless on the ground. She had her back to him, her arms outstretched, her face turned towards the horizon. He had been too weak, too weak to run further. And his mother, in her kindness and graciousness, understood. She was speaking, imploring. And something responded to her cries for mercy.

She was engulfed in fire and rain.

Ichigo felt a cold hand grip his arm, and a light breath on his cheek. "Ichigo?"

"Rukia," he croaked, "I-"

"Do not speak," she whispered. The purple in her eyes filled his vision. "You do not need to speak of it. I spoke out of turn, and for that I apologize."

Her hand still firmly clasped around his arm, tethering him.

"I will not ask you who the Valyrian is to you, or what your business is with him. I have not the right to ask." She released his arm, and Ichigo felt that a vise around his chest released its own grip. Her eyes remained luminous, linked to his. "When the day comes, and it _will_, when it comes that the telling of it would ease you, then know that you have a friend who will listen."

Ichigo breathed. And in that exhalation, he saw once more the cheerfully lit and windswept glade that they were sitting in.

"That is truly remarkable," she said.

Ichigo turned to her, his brow furrowed in confusion. "What, pray tell, are you speaking of, milady?"

"You actually are capable of an expression other than a dark scowl. I just witnessed it – there! – a slight upturning of the right edge of your lip. Are you perhaps on the precipice of a genuine smile?"

Her bell-like laughter that came after this followed him throughout the day. He nearly missed the fact that it was the first time that they had called each other by name.

**~o~**

**RUKIA**

Rukia was running.

She had promised the prince that she would meet him after the noonday meal. She had thought that she had plenty of time, at least until Lady Yoruichi's eyes fell on her. The older lady had in turns sniggered and tutted at the grass stains on her skirts. Her admonition that Rukia must have been having an interesting morning had prompted Rukia to quickly change into a new gown.

She saw him standing by the edge of the enclosure by the town walls, foot tapping impatiently, and face frowning into the ground. He was garbed in a moss-green tunic, threaded in gold, over an immaculately white shirt and dark wool trousers. His spiked silver hair captured the noon sun and held it in its grip.

She stopped in front of him abruptly and heaved a deep breath to calm her self. "I… do apologize, milord, I was unduly delayed."

The prince opened his mouth to speak, but decided to stop from uttering what must have been a sharp retort, and instead nodded to her. "You have no need to apologize; I merely thought you had decided not to come."

Rukia furrowed her brows. "I would not say that I would come and yet do something completely different."

He gave a short humorless laugh, and said; "I find that what people say and do are not always in accordance with each other. Well. It is of no matter. We are both here."

Rukia looked over at the tall wooden pilings that rounded the enclosure and were held together by tar and hempen rope. The construction looked to be hurried and likely would not last a prolonged attack. The wood that was used, however, was stout and thick.

"The wood needed to be strong to withstand his questioning jabs," he said, "and yet it had to be able to come apart easily to allow us to dismantle it when we break camp and move on to the next town that we would be staying in." He reached out a hand to softly rub the grain of the wood, much like a mother would neatly dust off a child's dress.

"His?" Rukia's question reached out tentatively.

"It is true that it is difficult to gauge their gender from sight alone, but most Valyrians know if the hatchlings they receive are male or female."

"How?"

He cocked his head to one side. "It is… something that whispers to us in the back of our minds. It affects how we name them."

She nodded in acknowledgement. "I was told that names held power for the Children. They weave them in their songs, and it gives their songs the power to touch hearts."

"I have heard many things about these Children. They were your old nemesis, yes?"

Rukia thought back to the old tales she used to hear when she had scavenged in the village, and then to the rare books that she later read in the Kuchiki keep. The image that threaded itself in her thoughts, however, was one of her brother's.

The Kuchiki keep had gardens that bloomed in the spring and summer days. Rukia had never known who had commissioned them, for she could not see her lord brother, with his aloof and formal ways, overseeing the creation of something so delicate and colorfully vibrant to the senses. There were whispers of a lady, but her name was never uttered in Rukia's presence.

Yet he spent as much time as he could in the gardens. As unlikely as it was, he was most often found there than in any place in the keep. And Rukia, seeking her own place, was drawn to the keep godswood, and to the weirwood heart-tree in it.

Rukia had seen wild weirwoods in the forests around her old village. And while their blood red five-pointed leaves, white bark, and carved faces were similar to the one in the keep godswood, she felt that the godswood tree was somehow different.

One day, she found her brother of the spring gardens, kneeling by the heart-tree. She had stopped like a deer caught in a hunter's gaze, but he had noticed her all the same. He motioned her forward, and began a tale.

It was a tale that she later echoed to the Valyrian prince, in a place where all the weirwoods have been burned to the ground.

"All Northern keeps have a godswood, a small forest grove built within the castle walls. And within the godswood, standing like a sentinel, is a single weirwood tree, planted by the First Men. It became known as their heart-tree, a witness to their triumphs and their tragedies. I will tell you of how it came to pass, that these trees now stand in the heart of the First Men's Houses."

"Weirwood trees are sacred to the Children of the Forest. They believe that they are conduits to the old gods. Which was why when the First Men started cutting them down during the Dawn Age, the Children retaliated with the strongest magics that they possessed, eventually shattering the land bridge called the Arm of Dorne, and creating the Stepstones. But the First Men were men of bronze and strength, and the Children could not prevail."

"They eventually made their peace with the First Men on the Isle of Faces, and the Children agreed to give the open spaces to the First Men, whilst they dwelled in the remaining forests. Thus started congress between the two people."

"One prince, a son of the son of the First King's get, was particularly enamored of the lithe and winsome Children and their fey ways. He had seen proof of their magic and their supernatural relations with earth and stone, water and forest beast. Much like any youth confronted with the mysterious and the bizarre, he disdained his familiar legacy of bronze in favor of the Children's arts."

"His father, however, was a much different tale. He had lost many members of his family to the Children during the wars, including his fair wife. And he still clutched to his heavy heart the memory of those bloody years. He resented that his only son was becoming closer to his perceived enemies, and proclaimed that the diminutive people were bewitching his son. The son would not hear him, for he saw the blackness of hatred in the father's eyes. Enraged, the father swore to himself that he would obtain proof of their malicious sorcery and exact his own justice."

"He went to his trusted warriors and stoked them into fury. He spoke of drought and malformed births in their cattle. He spoke of the Children and their sinfully naked bodies. He spoke of dark magic in the death-filled cold. And the men thirsted for blood."

"His reasoning was thus: if he and his men were to accompany his son on one of his jaunts to the forest, they can slay the band of Children that his son most often spoke with; then he would be able to free his son from their vile sorcery, and at the same time obtain his sought-after revenge. There was one vital flaw in his plans, however, and it is a flaw that he could not see, for his narrow mind refused to see it. It was the notion that he could be wrong."

"He went to his son, and in a face full of guile, gave him the lies that his son had wanted to hear for so long. How he had realized the error of his ways. How he knew that peaceable relations with the Children could profit their kith and kin. How he now seeks to amend his boorish treatment of the magical people. Heartened at this apparent good news, his son embraced his father and bid him to accompany him to the forest that very same day."

"They traveled in great comfort, with weather and the heavens seemingly as joyous with their progress as the son was. When they reached the edge of the forest, they were greeted from its shadows by a beautiful waif, with hair that fell on her shoulders like a quiet waterfall, skin as brown as the goldenheart nut and dappled like a shy deer's, and large eyes the color of warm spiceflower honey. At the sight of her, the father felt a stirring in his loins, and he became even more wrathful thinking that she was also bewitching him."

"His son rushed out to greet the Child and to reassure her of his father's good intentions. His father and his warriors followed more sedately. He unobtrusively signaled to them to ready their great axes. He stoppered his ears with his own hate, which was why he did not hear the waif warning the son of danger. Instead, all he saw was that this creature was enticing his son, and must have been beguiling him all this time."

"While he was but a few paces away, he shouted an alarm to warn his son. He meant for his son to move or even to stand still, and allow his warriors the opportunity to swing their axes. But alas! His cry instead had the opposite effect. For his son realized the truth in his father's eyes. And his cry ignited the tense crowd into attacking."

"Someone panicked. Several raised their axes. A few threw theirs in vicious, random arcs. One aimed true for the waif's heart. Instead it found the son's back beneath the father's blade."

"Oh! How he wailed. He pulled his son from the latter's protective embrace of the waif. He held his son in his arms, bloodied and dying, and asked forgiveness. He barely saw the Child, lying near death by the side. For so great was the father's anger and fear that he had buried the axe to the very handle, and the blunt blade had penetrated the son's chest to pierce her as well."

"His son, however, saw how the Child was, and reached out for her. For he knew that any metal, be it bronze or deadly iron, was anathema to them. He reached out to her, and his father, even then, admonished him that she was still bewitching him."

"_Fie on you_, he said to his father, _your lies and your deceived heart prevent you from seeing truly._"

"It was then that his father realized his error."

"Much later, the other Children came to him. The father's cowardly warriors had long ago run away in a mad scramble to escape any rightful retribution. He was still sitting down, cradling his only son in his arms, although the youth had long gone. The Children somehow knew what had happened. The foremost of their number sat down with him, and held something out to him. It was a weirwood seed."

"In that quiet, halting way that they had, he said to the father, _take this, and plant it within your House's bosom, for it is a way for you to reach your son, and a way for us to reach each other_."

"He took the seed and his son's body, and planted both in a plot within his castle walls. In time, the tree grew. In time, the father made peace with his hate. When the summer came that the tree was strong enough, the father took a delicate carver's knife, and carved a face into the bark of the wood, taking care not to cut too deeply. The eyes filled with the tree's red sap, seemingly crying out in blood to finally see its bent and withered father."

"In front of the tree, whilst holding the knife, he said these words: _I swear that I will never lie again, nor will I suffer any lies before me. I swear to follow your path, and take up the old faith that you had chosen_."

"Since then, all noble families have kept a godswood and a heart tree within their castles. And although the southern kingdoms have forsworn their promise, the North continues to keep theirs; that although the Children were once enemies, there is a greater enemy, and it is the enemy within one's self. And they would always face it with honesty and honor above all."

Rukia fell silent. She shook herself much like she were waking from a dream. She looked towards the prince, and noticed that he was staring at her, mouth agape, and eyes alight with an odd emotion. She opened her mouth to apologize, but he curtly motioned to her.

"Please, do not think that you have inconvenienced me. That was… beautifully told. It was a much more entertaining tale than I have ever heard from a bard. It almost seemed like you were singing it."

Rukia felt a flame of embarrassment touch her cheeks, and looked away from him. "I merely recalled it in the same away that it was told to me."

The prince smiled, the first that she saw that was completely unabashed. "I doubt that. I do not think that there is any one that can spin a tale as you can." He held out his hand to her. "Come, Lady Rukia. It is my turn to beguile you."

Rukia felt something twinge in her chest as she looked at his outstretched hand. "As you will, Prince Toushiro."

They entered the enclosure through a small gate. Within it, a creature larger than a mammoth pawed at the ground. It had the engorged body of a great-scaled beast, a sinuous neck and a frightful-looking horned head, two back legs astride on the rough ground ending in sharp-clawed feet, and sky-darkening wings on either side of its torso.

Upon seeing the prince, it stretched out its wings, much like a Southern cave bat would in greeting its parent. It opened its huge jaw and showed its great fangs. And it huffed gently towards them.

A cool soothing wind prickled Rukia's skin. She drew in a breath, and smelled the fragrance of winter.

"This is my dragon," intoned Lord Toushiro, "Hyorinmaru, the only ice dragon known to Valyrians."

Rukia was so captivated that she paid little heed that the prince had called her by her name for the first time, and that he had allowed her to call him by his given name.

**~o~**

**AIZEN**

"-the Lady Rukia?"

Aizen's only response to Gin's query was to incline his head in the steward's direction. "I have made plans for her already."

A knock sounded on the door to his study. He bid the person to enter. He did not need to ask who it was, he already knew.

A youthful-looking man walked in. He had midnight-dark hair shorn close to his head, emerald-green shards chipped in obsidian for eyes, and the lean build of a penitent. He was garbed in the white unrelenting robes of the Stranger's godsworn.

"Ah, Septon Ulquiorra Cifer. Stay, stay, Gin, you might enjoy hearing this." Aizen nodded in permission to the septon.

Ulquiorra's voice was bland and calm. "I have roused them as you ordered, High Septon. They stand ready for your commands."

"Them?" Ichimaru's smile had widened, anticipation emanated from him.

Aizen chuckled and said in his velvet tone. "I do not believe you know of them. They are a small band within the Faith Militant. I had always found the Faith's order of knights and common rabble-rouser soldiers to be a tad… mindlessly violent. Hence I formed a smaller group, one that I can deal with more easily." He did not need to add that it was a group that was fanatically loyal to him alone. He smiled benignly towards Ulquiorra. "My _Espada_. The true Sword and Stars."

Ulquiorra remained silent, awaiting the High Septon's pleasure.

"Speak with Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez. He is with the Warrior's Sons stationed in the sept. He is to take a few of his men and visit some people. There is one that I particularly want him to meet. An orange-headed fellow."

"The Emissary?" said Gin. "Whatever for? Other than he has been seen in the lady's company?"

Aizen turned towards him. "We will, in common parlance, strike two hummingbirds with a single stone. We will show proof that the dear Lady Rukia was seen practicing dark forbidden magic. And that the poor emissary was her first unfortunate victim."

"The prince would not believe it," said Gin.

Aizen made a tutting sound. "He will, for he would bear witness to its practice." Aizen idly caressed his collarbone. In so doing, he exposed the glint of metal adorning the leather thong around his neck. It was a bit of Valyrian steel.

When Gin started giggling, he knew that his message was understood. That bit of Valyrian steel was a testament to Aizen's knowledge of the occult. The Lady Rukia would be his pawn; and she would display vile magic in front of the prince, whether she willed it or not.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Rukia is a complex character in that she is sensitive and caring, but at the same time, she is decisive and practical. She is immersed in the reality and inevitability of death, but she is not so inured by it that she can ignore its brutal effects on mortals. And the best thing about her in Westeros? She is a lady in a predominantly patriarchal society, and she can totally kick the men into the dust._

_ACK: Thank you again for the reviews/faves/alerts!_

* * *

**~ Chapter 5 ~**

_There are now no known practitioners of the lost Arts of the Children. The innate magic of the land has been drained dry; we are left only with the stifling smoldering one from across the Narrow Sea. I can offer neither proof nor solace. You have only my words that these events happened._

_Yet they did happen. And what has come to pass, may come once again._

_- an excerpt from A Story Time Forgot (GSY)_

**~o~**

**TOUSHIRO**

The problem lay in the fact that the Lady Rukia was not a customary noblewoman.

Toushiro shook his head in frustration. He rubbed the grainy leather reins of his horse and absent-mindedly led the animal through the meadow trail. He looked down the hillside towards the heavily laden crop fields.

The fields were almost bursting, yearning to free themselves from their burden of grain. The fruit orchards were reaching maturity. After such a long dry summer, the land was greedily soaking up the rains that fell the previous day. It would not be too long before the peasants can start the harvest. Ironically, although the moisture brought by the rain was necessary, it also held off harvest day. Taking in the crops without a few weeks of crisp clear autumn weather was courting disaster.

His thoughts wandered again towards the contradiction that was the Lady Rukia.

"Your highness," the abrupt voice cut through his thoughts with an angry slash, "you keep daydreamin' and you might end up in a ditch somewhere."

He snapped his gaze towards the blue-haired man that spoke. "Jaegerjaquez," Toushiro's tone dripped with icicles, "have a care, your tone borders on insolence. And in my presence, insolence is rewarded with its due."

The man Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez only bared his teeth even more, a mountain cat showing its fangs. His tall, well-muscled frame was slouched over his dappled gray beast of a horse, while his lopsided grin matched the unbalanced effect of his bright blue eyes. "My, my, wouldn't want that, would we, your highness?"

Toushiro could not fault the other's words, but he could almost swear that the man intentionally said his honorific as a curse word.

He snorted in irritation. This was mainly due to the High Septon. When Toushiro had mentioned in passing that he wished to take his horse out for his usual mid-morning ride, the High Septon insisted on a guard to accompany him. Toushiro had demurred, but the High Septon needed to mention only the word bandits, and Matsumoto started caterwauling about Toushiro's safety. He had no recourse but to bring along the guard that the High Septon suggested.

Toushiro eyed the man's back. Jaegerjaquez certainly held the Warrior's favor. He sported the inlaid silver armor, rainbow cloak, and the seven-pointed star crystal on his sword pommel to mark him as a member of the Warrior's Sons, the order of the Faith Militant that was comprised of untitled nobles and hedge knights. Beyond that, however, he was also gifted with the rare agility and canny strength that any knight prayed to the Seven for. Toushiro could not have chosen a better guard for himself.

Yet the man unnerved him. And Toushiro tended to trust his instincts when it was screaming at him.

"That is a fine piece of horseflesh you have, it does not look to be native to this region," Toushiro said. He needed to sound out the other man, and conversation seemed to be the only way to do so.

He guessed correctly on the other man's point of pride. "Pantera could beat all these other horses to the dust," Jaegerjaquez boasted. "There is not a living animal," a quick sneer towards Toushiro's own mount, "that can best his nimble legs and endurance in battle."

Toushiro could almost hear the unspoken words that came after: _not even the mounts of highborn princes_. He most definitely did not like to stay long in this man's company. He turned his horse around, intending to return to the town.

"I hear that saucy Northerner vixen can be seen hereabouts, practicing her dancing."

He stopped his horse short and glanced back at Jaegerjaquez. "I do hope that you are not referring to a lady of this realm in such familiar terms." He felt his horse shudder in fear, and noticed too late that his grip on the reins had disfigured the leather and had slightly pulled back the horse's head. He slowly released his hold, waiting for the other man to reply.

Jaegerjaquez only smirked wider. "I hear no proper lord of the realm is willing to wed her, leastways 'til Lord Ginrei breathes his last, and then they can go after her House. But while the old lord still holds on, that means she's up for anyone with the strength to take her, no?"

This time, Toushiro's horse whimpered and stepped off to the side. When he looked down on the animal, its head was pulled back in an awkward angle. Toushiro forced his fingers to ease its hold on the reins.

Jaegerjaquez bared his teeth, his tongue briefly appearing in the jagged gap of his jaws. "For most of those after her, it's the glow of her gold that they see. For myself, the glow of her skin is far more-"

Toushiro's vision bled from the edges. In the next instant, he found himself looming over the taller man. One of his legs was bent over his own saddle, while his other leg was propped against Pantera's neck. He was straddling both horses, and his hand was gripping Pantera's mane, holding the horse still. He could feel both horses tensing against their proximity to each other. "If you speak of the Lady Rukia in that tone again, you will lose that tongue."

The other man's blue eyes dilated, like a beast's would when waiting to pounce. And then suddenly, he roared in laughter. "That was entertaining, your highness. You nearly had me convinced you were serious about this whole _Westerosi_ affair."

Toushiro shrugged back towards his own horse. He turned away from Jaegerjaquez, infuriated in the realization that the other man had been intentionally baiting him, and he, fool that he was, had too easily shown his inclinations. He also grasped the meaning behind Jaegerjaquez's parting shot; that he, as an outsider, had very limited powers to aid Lady Rukia.

The sudden feeling of impotence nearly overwhelmed him, nearly as great as the awakening rage that was the darker twin to helplessness.

**~o~**

**URYUU**

Uryuu Ishida calmly turned the page of the bound manuscript, pondering the mysteries of the known world.

The vast library of the sept had always attracted scholars and godsworn alike. It held the largest collection of writings, vellum tracings of the weirwood tree faces, illustrations on animals and plants. More importantly, it held the gift of silence to aid in the meditation of the seekers of knowledge.

"Ishida! I have need of your counsel!" The voice boomed painfully throughout the room. Several people hissed towards his direction.

He rubbed his temples in sudden desperation when he saw orange hair appear before his vision. "Kurosaki. I believe that one would need to be in your employ as advisor before one can provide you with any counsel. And no, you cannot afford me as your counselor."

The other man merely looked at him with brows drawn questioningly. "Is something amiss? Have those strongarms come back to annoy you further?"

Uryuu flattened his palms over the text that he was reading. He did not want to crumple the rare paper in his hands. "You aided me, somewhat incidentally I may add, that one time. I had no real need of assistance, but your aid was duly recognized and recompensed. I do not fully understand why you continue to seek my company."

Kurosaki shrugged and said, "You are the only person residing in this town whose word I would trust."

Uryuu glanced back at him, his curiosity briefly overcoming his slight irritation at the interruption. He could not understand how a man that seemed to be concealing something could be so treacherously honest. "Kurosaki, my studies involve bodily ailments and cures. As you do not seem to present with the pox or the red ague, I do not see what help I could provide you." He raised a questioning eyebrow. "Unless your deformation is somewhere not quite visible?"

Kurosaki merely rolled his eyes. "That is not what I am after. Have you heard anything of the Lady Rukia Kuchiki?"

"The Northern lady?"

Kurosaki waved a hand. "And do not sneer at me so. I know that your distaste for the High Houses and their politics cause you stomach ailments, but I would hear your thoughts on her nonetheless."

"I do _not_ have stomach problems." Uryuu pushed the spectacles of graded glass up his nose, ignoring Kurosaki's mutterings of _why his face then looked like he needed to_ _go to the privy_. "What of it? Fancying to marry her? It would give you a foot into the High Houses, but not worth the trouble that those lot can bring."

Twin spots of color rose in Kurosaki's cheeks. Interesting, thought Uryuu.

"That was not my- I do not even know how you might think-"

"In any case," Uryuu continued, "the Houses in all the realm are keeping an eye on her. Some of them are waiting like vultures to swoop in once her grandfather Lord Ginrei passes away, and some, the disreputable ones leastways, are making a bid to take her hand. Like a morsel of flesh between rabid dogs, it would not be very pretty. I would not be caught amidst that trouble, if I were you."

Kurosaki stood up, flattened his palms over the desk, and scowled, in what Uryuu thought was a commendable job of mimicking indifference. "I am not interested in marrying her. I was interested in asking your opinion on her origins. She is not the typical Westerosi lady."

"Aah, you should have said so earlier," Uryuu ignored the snort from the other man as Kurosaki seated himself again across the table. "You mean her being Valyrian, yes?"

"You think she is really part Valyrian?"

"There is no doubt. You are from Essos, surely you should be aware of this."

Kurosaki merely shrugged. "Prince Toushiro does not have odd-coloured eyes."

Uryuu pushed his spectacles up his nose again and sighed. The frames were made in Westeros, which accounted for the less than satisfying fit, but it was the only set of frames his grandfather could afford. "The prince is a special case. His grandmother was not a Valyrian, but was a wealthy and influential merchant in one of the unconquered lands. She had the line of credit that the House of Hitsugaya craved, but sadly, not the bloodline." He peered at Kurosaki through the graded glass. It was yet another indication of slight wrongness with the other man. A native of Essos should have known this. "It left the prince with the silvered hair of a Valyrian, but not the rare eyes of one."

Kurosaki started to speak, but nodded thoughtfully instead.

"Purple eyes, or lilac, or indigo, are sure signs of Valyrian blood, however," said Uryuu. "The Valyrians are well known to pride themselves as separate in purity from their conquered peoples. Any congress between a Valyrian and an outsider is heavily frowned upon, assuaged only by great wealth. Whatever else she may be, there is Valyrian blood in the Lady Kuchiki."

Kurosaki looked away, his face shadowed. His voice reached Uryuu as if it were from a vast distance. "And you are quite sure of this?"

Uryuu did not speak right away. He studied the other man closely. He somehow felt that his next words bore a heaviness that he could not quite grasp. "I have been studying the physical aspect of the body, the humours and liquids, the bone and flesh, since I was but a child and an apprentice to my grandsire. I would not lightly say a thing if it were not borne out by that knowledge. And my mind tells me that Lady Kuchiki is part Valyrian, and is thus doubly steeped in violent intrigue as any Westerosi High House."

One edge of Kurosaki's mouth curled in what Uryuu thought was the closest thing that could pass for a smile in a face that was creased with scowls. Uryuu knew what the other man was thinking. Not every thing could be explained by the mind. That sometimes, instinct took over.

Uryuu opened his mouth, readying himself to deliver a sharp retort on how much of Kurosaki's knowledge could be measured on the head of a pin.

"So you were an apprentice? I never thought of you as ever being young and inexperienced."

Uryuu's teeth nearly bit off his tongue as he closed his mouth with a start. He nearly clucked in irritation that Kurosaki might have noticed his slight consternation. "We do not have a real system of training except for apprenticeship. No structure to assess candidates and award merits, unlike the godsworn who are meticulously trained here in the Starry Sept before they are sent out on their duties. There is no indication of one's mastery of knowledge, except, mayhap, for this," he turned his wrist over to show a fine link of metal chains, one of which glinted silver in the watery light of the chamber.

His voice became soft. "My grandsire had always wished for a place of learning for us, wherein we can share our discoveries with each other, instead of going around inheriting what limited experience and knowledge our maester happened to have."

"Most likely he understood that people perceive of you as no better than a village cure or a learned bard. Much like people probably dismiss the Lady Rukia as a Valyrian, subject to all their foibles and manipulations. Merely because of some similarities."

Uryuu opened his mouth again, intending to speak. And again he had to grit his teeth closed. He was neatly trapped. He thought back on the conversation and flashed Kurosaki with a humorless smile. "You must really want to marry her then, if you are willing to look beyond your avowed aversion to Valyrians."

As he expected, Kurosaki started spluttering.

"I never said- That is completely- I do not know why you would think-"

"Oh hush, I have known for quite some time that you have no great love for Valyria. And if you really want to ask for the lady's hand, I suggest you do so with some coherence, and with some haste. I believe that is her walking over yonder."

Kurosaki turned to where Uryuu was pointing. A small window overlooking the stables showed the Lady Rukia astride her horse, intent on leaving the sept.

Uryuu returned to his contemplation of the manuscript, anticipating the quiet that would soon descend once Kurosaki was gone.

"Ishida! What are you still doing, sitting there? We should speak with her and discuss your knowledge on her bloodline." The voice boomed out and tunneled through both his ears. Several voices in the library were now raised in anger.

Uryuu sighed and pushed up his spectacles with a casual finger. He doubted the others in the chamber would further tolerate his prolonged presence for that day. He might as well watch Kurosaki's face both drain and flood with color at the same time.

He stood up to follow Kurosaki, when he chanced to look out the window once more. He noticed a shadow following her trail, dark and ominous.

On the way out, he called out to Kurosaki to wait, as he picked up the shortbow in his rooms. Sometimes, knowledge was not enough, and instinct took over.

"I think your instincts have led us astray, Kurosaki."

Kurosaki glanced back in irritation at Uryuu. "I found her trail leading here," he looked down at the ground, brows creased in thought, "I do not understand why it suddenly disappeared."

Uryuu gave him a thin smile. "Like a ghost, you mean?"

Kurosaki grunted in reply. "Something about this is worrying. You say you saw a man following her?"

Uryuu shrugged. "I made an observation that a man was riding a horse in the direction she took."

"What did the man look like?"

Uryuu sighed. "I have told you repeatedly, he looked like a slip of a boy barely out of his seventeenth summer. I doubt the armor he wore was his; it looked too much like spoils from weaker game."

"There have been reports of banditry hereabouts. A group of strongarms turned out of employment. She should not have ridden here."

"You are not her keeper, Kurosaki. And neither am I yours."

"Her tracks are gone. And so is the other man's. It would have been safer for her to stay in the keep, where most ladies are. Why does she always have to be so different?"

Uryuu looked about him. He was raised in towns, and had no inkling of what tracks belonged to what. They all looked similar to him; a fact that he would not voice to the other man. "They have a different way of doing things in the North. The High Houses there are still scheming and manipulative, but I suppose they are somewhat bound by honor."

Kurosaki raised an eyebrow. "Praise from you for a highborn? Rare praise indeed."

"The Northerners are still predominantly descended from the First Men, the Andals hardly got a foothold there. I suppose they still hold to the antiquated notion of honor that no one will attack a lady. She is not, however, among Northerners here."

Kurosaki gored him with a stare. "That is ill talk. There is no reason for anyone to harm her."

"She is of the High Houses. Everyone wishes her harm, reason or no."

Kurosaki turned away from him, silent as a tomb. He looked to the ground, probably casting about for the ghostly tracks. It was because he was so intent on this that he did not notice the falling shadow.

"Kurosaki!"

Uryuu felt the ground shift under his feet. One moment he had solid ground under him, the next he was kicking at air. He felt something push against his back, while his face was pushed against something else in turn. After struggling around to see, he realized that they had just been caught in a trapper's net. The large holes in the net allowed his limbs some freedom, but not much else.

His shortbow was within reach, but the damnable Kurosaki was squirming like a hog in heat. Hastily, he looked towards the perpetrator to hide the scarlet on his cheeks. "You must be truly brave, whoever you are, to ambush a man so."

Uryuu heard Kurosaki's low growl. The man who caught them must be facing his side then.

"What have you done to the Lady Rukia?" shouted Kurosaki.

"Two little birds caught in a trap," a voice sang, the melody crude and infantile. "Two little nosy-s about to get clapped."

"Ah, a rhymer," intoned Uryuu, "we are indeed fortunate to hear your pithy verse. It would motivate us to stab our own ears."

"Oi, Ishida, are you hurt?"

In truth, Uryuu felt it was his pride rather than his body that received a blow. To think that he was easily caught in this man's trap. "Hardly, Kurosaki, unless you count blows from the would-be bard's singing here."

Uryuu heard the stranger cackle, and felt footsteps walking towards him. He struggled to bring himself upright, and tried to meet the man's gaze. The hempen ropes of their cage were hung from a low-lying branch of a fruit tree. They swayed slightly to and fro, like a plump fruit ripe for the picking. The face of their captor reared before him; medium build, dirty blonde hair, and wide mouth opening into jagged teeth.

"Not bard, no, merely Di Roy, that be my name." His fist swung out to connect with Uryuu's jaw with an ugly snap.

"Ishida! Ishida!"

"Calm yourself Kurosaki," Uryuu muttered. He rubbed the sore spot beneath his lip, where a bruise threatened to bloom. "He did not-" He stopped short his caustic remark. He did not need to turn around to speak with Kurosaki. All three of them, he knew, were looking at the same thing.

The Lady Rukia was standing by the base of a hill. She did not make any noise, but she commanded their attention all the same. She was of a very slight build, black hair absorbing the sunlight, her stance taut as a string.

Di Roy cackled. "Are you here to save them, then?" There was a hiss of steel. Di Roy had unsheathed his sword. "Just goes to show that it takes a _woman_ to save these two," he sneered.

"Rukia!" Kurosaki screamed. "Run and get help! Chad and the others are in the keep."

"You run and they are both dead," said Di Roy. "And I will start with poking the loud one here."

Uryuu squirmed to get at his bow, just barely out of his reach. In the corner of his eye, he saw Di Roy, grinning and waving his sword, walk over to the other side. Kurosaki was screaming frantically for the Lady Rukia to run. The blood was pounding in Uryuu's ears as he strained and strained to reach the crossbow. He was going to be too late.

He heard a sound that called him back, and he turned his head to look.

Years later, he would try to describe to his beloved what he saw that day. He would falter at first, and he would struggle with his words. He would try to grasp those events like one would catch river water in one's hands, catching only one image at a time. Yet he would find that he could recall it more vividly when he just focused on _her_, the Lady Rukia. And he would start with the word She.

_She flexed her ankles, and slightly bent her knee. She seemed to press her weight against the ground._

_In the next instant, she used that very slight weight to launch herself. With a twist of her tensed feet, she was off the ground. She was in the air, spinning. With a deft flick of her wrist, she slipped her right hand to her left hip. In her hand, she held a snow-white handle._

_In the next breath, she descended back to earth. She swung her arm in an arc. She landed on a pointed toe. A swan coming in from a long flight._

_There was a scream of rage._

_In her hand, held easily and tensely to the side, was a bone-white sword blade. It was stained with blood._

_She spun around to face the screaming man. He charged at her, holding a blunt sword in his right, his injured side in his left. She hopped on one foot, closer. She came within his embrace. Her sword rang against his harsher blade. Her sudden momentum helped in briefly stopping his heavier awkward attack._

_She turned her head to the side. She swung her arms wide. The force of the clashing swords pushed her to his left side. In the next heartbeat, her back was against his unprotected back._

_He followed her lead, like a well-trained dance partner. He turned around to face her. His face was snarling with hatred. Then his face turned slack._

_She twirled around to face him again. The ancient maiden's trick. Tease the warrior. Let him come near. Then step away. Let him run after you. Step in for the kill._

_She turned her face to him, and lightly placed her left hand on his right shoulder. With the right hand, she plunged her sword into his belly._

_The dance was finished. She stepped back to accept his grateful bow. He kneeled in obeisance, and then keeled onto the dirt next to her._

_There was not a single spot of blood on her, save for on her blade. In her hand, a pure white ribbon flowed out from the blade's handle, snapping haughtily at the coarse wind._

Sound rushed back into Uryuu's world as he heard his own raspy breath, overly loud and abrasive to his ears. Kurosaki started screaming again. He noted that he used her name familiarly. It was something to mull over later. Right now he just wanted to strangle him for his caterwauling.

Once they were free from their bonds, Kurosaki rushed over to where she stood. He grasped both her shoulders. His voice was nearly cracking when he spoke to her. "You should not have done that, you did not need to-"

"I did not kill him, I merely injured him. We need to question him on why he was after us."

Uryuu looked over at Di Roy. She was right. Di Roy was lying still in a pool of blood, but he was drawing in ragged breaths all the same.

They hunched over the fallen man. Rukia spoke first, her voice terse. "I will ask the town magistrate to pardon you and spare your life, but you must tell us why you attacked us."

Di Roy coughed, his spittle leaving bloody traces down his chin. "Who says we wanted to attack you? You're just a woman, after all." He laughed weakly. "There's far better prizes walking about. Ones with silver hair, I hear." His eyes strayed towards the hill closest to them.

Uryuu heard a sharply drawn breath. Rukia's face had gone pale. She stood up and started walking in the direction that Di Roy's glance had betrayed.

"Where are you going?" Kurosaki was standing in front of the Lady Rukia, blocking her way. His hands were appropriately by his sides, but they were clenched. He was not looking at her direct gaze.

"I cannot stand idly by when others may need help."

Kurosaki's voice was raw and ragged. "Then I go with you."

Uryuu's head snapped towards Kurosaki. He knew that the man loathed Valyrians as much as Uryuu despised the nobles. Why would he decide to help then?

Uryuu kept kneeling while Kurosaki and the Lady Rukia exchanged looks and ran towards the other side of the hill together. He did not go haring off with them, he knew better, after all.

He looked down at the still-heaving Di Roy. "Lying is a curious thing. It has been found that when a person lies, their body betrays certain things. Their eyes shift about, their pulse quickens for the merest moment, their temperature slightly changes. I am a maester of the human body. You may have fooled them, but not me."

He saw Di Roy's eyes dilate as Uryuu flexed his fingers one at a time. He must have realized what was to come.

"I know that you were after the Lady Rukia. But I do not know why. Normally, I do not involve myself in House affairs. Unfortunately, you have dragged _me_ into this debacle, and I find myself greatly wanting this information." He finished stretching the muscles on his fingers. "And besides the ability to ascertain the truth in a person's words, I can also pinpoint areas of extreme pain on a person's flesh." He hovered two fingers over the spot behind Di Roy's knee.

The man's screams would not call back Kurosaki, not since Uryuu had waited to let them run quite some distance.

**~o~**

**ICHIGO**

Ichigo's sword vibrated in his hand as he brought it up to block the other man's attack.

"Why are you here if not to fight? Fight, damn you!" The blue-haired man growled at him, hacking at Ichigo's defenses.

Ichigo moved back another step. He hastily looked towards Rukia, sitting besides the still form of the Valyrian prince. She was not looking towards him.

They had found the blue-haired man leaning over the prince's body. Rukia had given a cry as she rushed over. Ichigo had hefted the sword he had taken from Di Roy, and bellowed to the man to attract his attention.

The blue-haired man had started attacking Ichigo, at first furiously, and then haphazardly. Rukia stayed with the prince, not once looking in his direction.

"Stop looking at the woman and pay attention to the fight! This is getting boring. I may decide to kill you just for refusing to fight like a man."

"Ichigo! We need to take him to the sept, I cannot revive him." Rukia's voice rang out.

Ichigo parried another swing from the other man's thrust. The sword in his hand was too awkward, too hesitant.

He lunged forward in the other man's arc, narrowly missing the blade. Using his momentum, he turned and swept out a leg towards the other man's feet. He heard a crunch as his leg connected, crashing down the other man's body to the ground.

He hopped away and ran towards Rukia. He swept up the body of the prince in his arms. He huffed in annoyance. The prince was heavy, for his size.

"Hurry, then." He bit back to her. "If you really need to bring him to a physik, I know a better man much closer. And he has a bow, too." He started running back to the place where they left Ishida. He heard Rukia behind him, running with ease.

Ichigo ignored the blue-haired man's screams for him to come back and fight, instead of running away like a woman. He did not need to fight, not if it was for the Valyrian.

They reached Ishida, sitting idly by a quiescent Di Roy. "Ishida! Your bow for this body."

"Seems like an uneven trade, Kurosaki."

"There may be another one behind us, I just need the bow to keep him occupied."

The physik sighed, and brought the bow up. "Put the prince down here and let me have a look at him."

Once Ichigo dropped the Valrian – none too gently – he grabbed the bow and turned around in the same motion, his eyes trained towards the hillside. The other man had not turned up yet.

"There is something wrong with him, I cannot revive him." He heard Rukia's voice.

"This is…odd," Uryuu replied. "He is breathing, but his pulse is getting weak." Uryuu sighed. "I have seen this before, and usually it is due to a blow to the head. Yet I do not see any head injuries to account for it."

"Will he wake up?" she asked.

Ichigo heard Uryuu's guarded tone. "His pulse is getting fainter. If he does not wake now, I do not think he will again."

Rukia was silent. Ichigo felt rather than saw her nod.

"Then we will have to force him to wake."

Ichigo's eyes were trained towards the blue-haired man emerging from the hill, which was why he was not able to witness and later to give testament to what happened. Uryuu claimed that he was pre-occupied with the prince, and did not see either. It was thus only the blue-haired man who was looking at Rukia, and whose word that would later damn her.

And what the man – whom Ichigo would know as Jaegerjaquez – would say later is that the Lady Rukia performed the most heinous act known to all Seven-fearing Westerosi. She used Children's magic.


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Fantasy epics have always caught my attention, for many reasons; the imagery, the magic, and to a very large extent, the language it uses, and sometimes invents. In ASoIF, George R. R. Martin is able to immerse us in his world from his use of the language, and to a great extent, Kubo does as well in Bleach (remember how Rukia spoke medieval Japanese at first?). So please chalk up the use of "foreign" phrases below as homage to these and other writers that continue to beguile us fans with their use of language. The foreign phrase is based on fictional Valyrian and historical Sumerian languages. Also, the farming know-how below was gleaned off of a Nepalese farmer/guide._

_ACK: Thank you again for the reviews/faves/alerts! I was shooting for bi-weekly updates, but unfortunately, distractions abound._

* * *

**~ Chapter 6 ~**

_To the Andals, the First Men, and the many people of the known continents, faith serves to explain the mysteries that surround our daily existence. We have gods to blame for the unnatural. _

_Yet not Valyrians. Theirs was the blessing and the curse of innate magic. The dragons they had tamed had imbued in them a disdain for the arcane. For were they not lords of many realms? Were they not masters of their own fates? Were they not god-like in their powers? _

_They were much like the Children in that respect, with the difference, being, that the Children knew they were not gods._

_- an excerpt from A Story Time Forgot (GSY)_

**~o~**

**URAHARA**

Many people perceived of Urahara as being lazy and apathetic. He would disagree vigorously, except that he has not the energy or the inclination for arguments.

Urahara yawned and idly held a hand up to better shade his face against the late morning light that filtered through the leaves of the apple tree. He sat back further against the tree's trunk to complete his escape, and ensconced himself amongst the rough roots. There were few places where he could escape Hiyori's snide remarks, and the apple orchard overlooking a plot of wheat crops was one of them. Hiyori avoided apples like the plague. He thought it gave her gas.

Wind. Yes, that one was possible. After all, sailors made use of wind currents to move everything from great galleons to sleek brigantines. If he took a sheep's bladder, blew air into it until it was stretched taut and thin, and then punctured the skin, would that be much like (_snicker_) Making Wind? No, no, wind always seemed to come from high places or from the sea. What was the difference? Was it the elements? Was it the temperatures? (or was it an invisible force that pushed the air in one direction?)

The sunlight continued to seek him out in his wooden sanctuary. He sighed as he pulled back further from the creeping spot of light. He looked out towards the fields and noticed a farmer dragging a water buffalo by its nose ring, as they laboriously plowed the soft land. The mild season in the Reach allowed for all-season planting, and the winter vegetables, carrots, broccoli, and the like, were being readied for planting, just as the spring crops were being readied for harvesting. The change from warm to cold season was among the busiest for farming, pushing folk to exhaustion.

Men. Now _that_ was a source that was not reliable in the least. Yes, yes, the sum of the strength of a dozen men was more than that of a single man, and so on. A team of slaves whipped by their master could move a block of stone the size of a small house. Men's combined strength was formidable, but not consistent. A single woman after all could hold off a dozen men with her fists and legs alone (she was also a mite drunk at the time). Her limbs had been a blur of indescribable speed, lashing at faces and breaking their bones. (It was the speed; the speed of her hands and feet seemed to add weight to her blows; an unknowable force that was compressed and was released in violence).

As if conjured by his thoughts, he saw that same woman off in the distance, striding towards his haven. He recoiled and made himself smaller, the light hardly touching him now. She crossed the small stream that gushed towards the farmer and his hapless animal. He thought even the water rushed past beneath her feet on dainty toes.

Water. There were terraced fields in Yi Ti, clinging to steep mountainsides. They had mills perched atop fast-moving streams. The rough-hewn mill had a wooden wheel in its hollow center, propelled by the water, grinding incessantly against a rock basin and turning grains into fine flour (water movement from high to low transformed into the sideways motion of the wheel). Water was deceptive. It seemed calm and still when left in a pool, but if you were to channel it through a small opening, and persuade it into a gradual drop, then it would roar into an unimaginable force that consumed entire towns. (Did the height of the drop make a difference? Or did the amount of water? Or was it both?).

"Kisuke! You lazy son of a cloven goat; you are drooling in your sleep again."

Urahara's eyes fluttered open as he focused on the dark-skinned woman looming in front of him. The length of her purple hair was gathered up by a ring of bone, while her ears and arms were adorned by bright stones. Her dress, as usual, clung to her body and revealed far more skin than most Westerosi noblewomen were wont to do.

"Princess Shihoin, your manners are as refined as your illustrious ancestors could hope." His smile was brilliant enough to shame the sun.

She snorted and sat down on the rough root beside him, revealing more of her calf. "I have no need of your sweet tongue, merchant, what I am in dire need of is the knowledge of where you have sent my apprentice."

"The Lady Rukia is her own person, as she is wont to admonish me from time to time."

Yoruichi frowned down at him. Why did it seem that women could make the most common expression into the most horrendous weapon? It must be their tactile faces.

"I merely mentioned that the hills by the western fields was an ideal and secluded place to practice her Arts."

She hissed. Yes, that was most definitely a hiss. "Have you lost your wits, you pox-ridden whore of an ibex? It is bad enough that we have to live with your good friend the High Septon, but to taunt the fates as well by flourishing an armed woman under the Most Devout's noses?"

Urahara spoke fast. "I also mentioned in passing to Prince Hitsugaya that it was a lovely place for a ride." He took a breath. "Although not nearly as lovely as you, Princess Shihoin." He smiled up to her, hoping that his guileless nature would shine through.

Her expression froze for a moment, and then she burst out in a cackle. "You old dog, Kisuke. Was that what you were about? You could have told me, and I would have helped, you know."

She leaned back, and settled herself more comfortably, although her dress stretched itself more tightly. Her fierce look was now turned quiet, and more importantly, it was not turned towards him.

Quiet descended on them, lulling his thoughts for a brief moment.

"Kisuke, do we play gods with this girl's life? Are we any different from her blighted brother?"

"We do what we must."

She sighed. "That we do. Yet we do so with the complete knowledge and understanding of what our actions entail." She paused, and took another long breath. "She knows not what we plan for her. She knows only that we will aid her in her quest to bring proof of her brother's murderer."

Urahara turned to her and chose his words carefully. "Do you remember when I first came to Dorne?"

She snickered. "Soi Fong still has a price on your head."

He rolled his eyes. "She was a mite upset the last time I saw her. She had the notion that I had stolen away the princess that she had sworn her life to protect."

"Soi Fong always took her duties to me so seriously. She _became_ her duty. I think one of the reasons I left was to allow her the freedom to become whatever it was she could be." She cocked her head to one side to regard him. "Why speak of that time? Neither of us can return to Dorne now."

"When I first came to Dorne to the Royal House, it was to seek knowledge." He paused, and then turned to look her in the eye. The sunlight shied away from his face, casting it into shadows. "You had not known at that time what kind of knowledge I sought, yet you had agreed to bring me to the Rhoynish vaulted library. It was a collection of the rarest manuscripts that your people had brought with them when they fled the Valyrians and sought refuge in Dorne, and definitely not open to the common eye. Why? What prompted you?"

The edge of her lip curled in a smile. "I was curious."

His smile answered hers. "You were answering to your own nature. All our decisions, whether they were of import or of inconsequential things, were always done as an echo of who we were at the time." He looked away from her, and regarded the western hills. "Rukia is doing the same. She would have come, whether she knew of our true purpose or not, because it is in her nature to hold her duty above everything else."

Yoruichi's voice was a whisper. "Even above her own person."

Urahara smiled. "Aye, she would." He turned to regard Yoruichi once more; his smile was cracked, a broken line across his face. "But she would do so without the knowledge that she brings death to hundreds of thousands of souls."

The sunlight touched Yoruichi's face and was swept into her glittering eyes. He remembered when she first turned those eyes on him, boring through his lies and his mask. He remembered when she laughed at his awkward attempt to tame her, and when her laugh later turned into a quiet chuckle after he finally asked for her help. And he remembered when she agreed to help him.

"My, my, Princess Yoruichi, have I ever told you how the sunlight is shamed by the brilliance of your eyes?" he smiled up at her.

She snorted. "I have told you before, merchant, empty flattery is not the path to my underclothes."

He slapped his forehead in abject misery. "I am too low of a man to even think of touching your hand, oh Princess! I am merely voicing the thoughts of every man that gazes at you."

Her chuckle was guttural and rough. "I doubt that those godsworn and hedge knights were looking at my eyes; I rather think they were looking at another pair I have further down my neck."

Their shared laughter rang out across the fields. It reached the small blonde woman that was running towards their shelter.

"Oi! Ugly merchant, I have been searching for you."

Urahara waved at the running Hiyori. "I am always at your service, little Hiyori."

A flying boot pummeled into Urahara's cheek and bloodied his nose. "That was for hiding from me." Another boot kicked in the back of his knee, forcing him to the ground. Hiyori's gaze was fierce and angry. "And that was for pure pleasure."

Urahara rubbed his sore cheek. "Delighted as usual, but you seem to be a bit more agitated than is normal. Is something amiss?"

Hiyori's lips were taut and grim. "They have Lady Rukia. One of the Swords of the Faith Militant is testifying before the Town Magistrate that he saw her with a sword." Her words hissed between her teeth. "He also says that he saw her playing at Children's magic."

Urahara was grateful that he was already on the ground. His legs would have given way.

Hiyori's eyes burned, like flint on a blacksmith's kiln. "Move, merchant. Move! That is her only hope right now."

_Movement_. That was it. That was the key.

He clasped Hiyori's skinny shoulders with his callused hands. "My thanks, dear one, for showing me the way."

He stood up and ran towards the sept, ignoring Hiyori's high-pitched shrieks of "_pervert! Did you just touch me?!_" His friend would recover from his intrusion.

Yoruichi, even in her dress, was keeping up with his speed. "Kisuke. Do you have any plans?"

Movement. It had been staring him in the face. That force that was in everything, be it man or object, never dissipates. It was always dormant. Until it _moved_. And then you have the power to propel ships, the power to break bones, the power to grind the wheels of fate itself. Transforming that power so that it moves from one state into another was the key.

It was also going to be the key to save their little snow hare. They just had to change that palpable force between her and the prince. Move it in another direction.

His response to Yoruichi was breathless. "I always have plans, Princess, have you never noticed?"

Their shared laughter rang out over the fields and echoed down to the farmer, his water buffalo, and a still flustered Hiyori.

**~o~**

**GRIMMJOW**

Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez was cussing the gods, all Seven of them.

He started with the Father, for the laughable idea that a blind Magistrate means an impartial judgment. The Crone, well, an old woman that thinks she's the font of wisdom deserved to be called out as a crock of dung; all the old women that he knew were bitter and malicious. For that matter, the Mother, with her trumpeting of love and compassion, was even worse; the only mothers he knew were ones that were eagerly spreading their legs for him. And Maidens, too; chastity was not engraved deeply enough on their belts, seemed like. The Smith was just a pussy for not picking up a sword. When he thought of the Stranger, all he saw was a pair of morose emerald green eyes, and his well of cuss words dried up. By the time his thoughts reached the Warrior, his own anointed deity, he did not even have the inclination to slug it out with him.

"Ser Jaegerjaquez, are we perchance boring you? Mayhap you will be more comfortable taking your turn to speak before the Appointed now."

Grimmjow looked into the empty holes of the Appointed Magistrate's eyes, and could not help the shudder that ran up against his back.

Kaname Tosen was known throughout the Kingdom of the Reach, not just for being Appointed to the seat of Magistrate for the most powerful town in the middle kingdoms, but also for an uncanny ability to see without sight. When Tosen was but a child, a group of heretics from across the Narrow Sea had raided his coastal town, and had burned out his eyes. Tavern talk would always whisper that it was at that time when the dark-skinned youth would come to see more truly than any man living. Shortly thereafter, septons from the Father came calling.

Grimmjow damned the Father once more for good measure.

"My apologies, Lord Magistrate," he mumbled, the words dragged from between his gritted teeth. Seeking an outlet, his unusual eyes flashed with contempt instead towards the bright-haired youth that was standing and speaking before the Appointed.

The man who called himself Ichigo Kurosaki started up once again. He finished his tale of being trapped in a hunter's net and being saved by that woman. Grimmjow's lips curled in a sneer. He had thought that the boy was pathetic when they had crossed swords, but this went beyond belief. That little slip of a girl could not have overpowered Di Roy. He had trained Di Roy himself.

"Ser Jaegerjaquez, there is no need for you to growl at the witness so. I doubt that he gets easily frightened." The magistrate turned his attention back towards Kurosaki. "Now, you claim that you and the Lady Kuchiki found one of the Warrior's Sons, a member of the Faith Militant's order of sworn knights, hovering over the unconscious Prince Hitsugaya. And that you proceeded to do battle with this person, who, I might add, had been charged with protecting the prince, and had probably been looking over the prince out of concern. Would you not call that slightly suspect?"

A flush crept up the boy's neck and threatened to enflame his face. He replied, "the man who had attacked us, I think he called himself Di Roy, had mentioned that they had been after the prince. Ruk- I mean the Lady Kuchiki and I rushed to find him, and saw an armed man looking down at an unconscious body. To our eyes, at the time, the knight's actions were suspect. We only did what we had thought was right."

The Magistrate's brows were drawn together in disapproval. He had dark, dusky skin, long black hair tied in the traditional braids of the Stormlands, and a sinewy muscled build of a pit fighter. "I believe you are not in the position to determine that."

The jaw muscles on Kurosaki's face clenched, but he stayed silent. At least the boy had some smarts.

Magistrate Tosen continued, "and you say that this – Di Roy, was it? – was the one who said that the prince was in danger, after attacking you and the Maester Ishida. And that the Lady Kuchiki was the one who managed to free you."

Grimmjow drowned out Kurosaki's reply. It did not matter, anyhow; it could not have been true. Di Roy may have been the youngest in their ranks, but he was still a true predator.

They had all been squires, Shawlong, Nakeem, Edrad, Yylfordt, and Di Roy, when they had met. It had been one of those usual things.

Knights of the realm traveled the Seven Kingdoms offering their swords to liege lords. Every once in a while, they would gather in tourneys to test their strength, and to pick up a coin or two. Tournaments, however, much like real battles, did not occur often enough, especially to knights that were not sworn bannermen and were therefore not privy to a regular purse. Instead, those knights turned to other means.

They would gamble the little coin they had left in certain matches; matches that occurred in the filth of the shadowed parts of town; matches that were not talked about by lofty nobles or by their simpering bards: a Gutter Match. And in a fight that had no glory and plenty of bloodshed, those knights would not risk their limbs. They threw in their squires instead.

Grimmjow had first met the other five in one such match. He could no longer remember the name of the town; it was the same as any other. He had been following Shawlong, with a blunt knife in hand. It was a common practice to try to wound your next opponent before the actual fight. It made for a much bloodier entertainment, and hence called for higher stakes. And of course, it also assured a higher chance at victory. Squires who lost, after all, still had to return after their fights to their masters, men who had just lost their coin and were battle-fevered. It pushed each squire to be quite creative in winning a fight.

He had had a number of ways. It was his size. He had been seven or eight summers, he could not recall. But his size fooled his opponents. He had been skinny, but it only made him less of a target. He had been small, but it only made him quicker. Above all it was his hunger. The gnawing at the pit of his stomach would remind him of survival, of how to avoid his knight's horse lash at each mistake, of how to rush in and savor the shriek from another boy's face.

But he had been careless, that day when he had followed Shawlong. His knight had been particularly proud of him that day. He had won the last few matches by completely destroying his opponents. It had been earning his knight a name. And his knight had given him a heel of bread, as a reward.

He had wolfed it down. Days of scrounging at the feet of tables for scraps had been forgotten. Days of honing his instincts for survival. And it had very nearly cost him his head.

Shawlong, his next fight, was a much bigger opponent than they usually pitted against him. But he, much like any other squire, was thin and bony, with an elongated face that spoke of blood from the Westlands. Shawlong had walked into an alley, and Grimmjow had thought nothing of it. It was the full stomach. He should have known better.

When he had followed, he only had a moment of clarity before all five of them descended on him. They had no weapons; squires handled and cared for their knights' weapons, but had none of their own. Grimmjow, however, had stolen a blunt knife from a kitchen some time ago. And he used it to his advantage.

However, five youths against one only had one foreseeable direction. He was pummeled repeatedly. Kicked down. He felt tart blood drowning him. They were not going to kill him. They needed him alive for the fight. But the blood, the blood was now everywhere. And finally his hunger rescued him.

He had growled. That was what they would tell him later. He had growled, and grabbed the nearest flailing limb that he could reach. It was Di Roy. And Grimmjow growled, and bit into the side of Di Roy's head.

Everyone had gone quiet at Di Roy's screams then. They had stepped back, the terror oozing from their eyes. He had looked at each one of them, and whispered, "You are all mine."

Shawlong would later decline to fight him, and instead risked his knight's frenzied lashing and beatings for losing him his coin. Many seasons later, when they heard that Grimmjow had finally earned his own sword, they left their knights and came to him. And he had trained them.

"Ser Jaegerjaquez, since you would not desist from growling, I would hear your testimony now."

Grimmjow snapped his head towards the Magistrate. They were all in a small room, off to the side of the Great Hall. It had a table at one end, and the Magistrate sitting behind it. There were no other seats.

The boy Kurosaki spoke up. "Your pardon, Ser, why are we giving testimony? We had done no harm. The prince stands there and can tell you himself." Kurosaki waved towards the Valyrian prince, standing in one corner of the room. "Even the man Di Roy is still alive and being cared for in your infirmary. And if it is an inquiry into the events, why is the Lady Kuchiki not present?"

"I would ask you to hold your tongue when you are not required to speak, Ser Kurosaki." The Magistrate's tone hissed like steel being bared from its sheath. "You are an Emissary from across the Narrow Sea, and for that, we can forgive your thoughtless manners. But know that our women do not have the disposition for such crude talk of battle. Now, Ser Knight, your testimony?"

Grimmjow went through his prepared speech. His thoughts idled however, and strayed towards that wisp of a girl. He had seen the girl with her sword, a real fancy one too. It looked too thin and delicate, however, to even slice through leavened bread, much less to stop Di Roy's iron sword.

"And it is your testament that the prince had fainted during the course of your ride, and that while you were assisting the prince, you were attacked by Ser Kurosaki?"

Grimmjow did not need to reply. He merely smirked towards the Valyrian boy. It always amused him when the highborn were made low. He hoped that bards would one day sing of the Fainting Silver Prince.

"And that Ser Kurosaki, who could not prevail against you, instead ran off while carrying the prince. When you proceeded to follow – out of concern for the prince, I am sure – you saw these three around the unconscious prince."

"Aye," Grimmjow said, "with that man Di Roy on the ground as well."

"Do you know the man who claimed to be Di Roy?"

By the time he had earned his sword, Grimmjow had grown well into his armor, and finally had the bulky muscled limbs that he had lacked when he was younger. His large hands had gripped his aging knight's neck quite securely, while the old man's own hands had felt feeble as it tried to pry his off. The others as well had shrugged off their youthful sizes, except for Di Roy.

Grimmjow took it upon himself to train Di Roy in the manner that he knew, the gutter rat manner, the predator's manner. It was after a particularly grueling training that he had found Di Roy, spent and bloody, with a knife held listlessly in one hand. They had thought that he was going to be lost forever.

Grimmjow had gripped Di Roy's knife hand. He had told Di Roy, you have to be hungry for it, whatever it was. Be hungry for it. And Grimmjow had guided Di Roy's knife hand towards his own belly. Grimmjow held Di Roy's hand, while he skewered his own stomach. He wanted to show Di Roy how to be hungry.

When he had healed up, and the scars had covered the wound on his stomach, the other five came to him then. They had been led by Di Roy. They each sported their own carved holes on their flesh, and they each swore to always follow him, wherever he went.

"Ser Jaegerjaquez, is there something amiss?"

"Beg pardon, Magistrate?"

"You have been scratching at your stomach as if the vermin from the netherworld had taken residence there. I had asked if you knew the man who had attacked the emissary and the Lady Kuchiki."

Grimmjow grinned up at the empty pair of eyes. "Never met him."

The Magistrate leaned back in his seat and brought his hands together in silent contemplation. When he spoke, it was to a quiet that nearly cried out for release. "And can you tell us about this business of the Lady Kuchiki practicing Children's magic?"

Grimmjow turned his head towards the Valyrian. Before they had walked into the room, he had seen the boy speaking with a merchant. He had been unusually subdued. Grimmjow then looked at the Kurosaki boy. When Lord Aizen had pointed him out, he had thought that he was going to finally have a good fight in his hands. He had not even bothered bringing the other four because he had wanted the boy especially for him. He had only brought Di Roy to deal with the girl and whoever else might have been there. The boy, however, had not even offered a decent fight. It was such a waste.

He shifted his stance, discomfort seemingly creeping up his legs. He flexed his knuckles, the clicking sound of bones reverberating. He remembered what he saw. He just was not so sure about it.

"I…" Grimmjow started, and instead cleared his throat. "I was going over the rise, when I-"

"This is ridiculous!" Kurosaki's voice thundered. "The Lady Rukia helped in reviving the prince, who had been unconscious, and according to Ishida, may not have woken up. Where is this inquiry headed?"

Grimmjow looked back at the boy. His respect for the dandy had just gone up, somewhat. It took a certain kind of man to stand up against the Starry Sept Magistrate.

Magistrate Tosen's tone was low and controlled. "Ser Kurosaki, you will be removed from these proceedings."

The boy protested and flailed about, and Grimmjow nearly expected the Faith Militant that escorted him out to run him through with a sword. The boy was all talk; it was certainly disappointing.

When quiet held them in its grip, the Magistrate nodded towards him.

Grimmjow cleared his throat once again. "I was going over the rise, when I saw five figures, two of them on the ground. Kurosaki was waving a crossbow in my direction, and the physik was attending to the prince. The girl – Lady Kuchiki – was standing by the prince's feet."

The Magistrate leaned forward. "And?"

"She…she was swaying."

The Magistrate's brows creased together. "Swaying? Are you telling us that she was dancing?"

"No, I do not mean that she was dancing, I meant…" Grimmjow coughed to the side. He had wanted to spit, but swallowed it instead. "She was swaying," he finished simply.

"And was there anything unusual about her swaying?"

Grimmjow found himself once more on that rise, breathing in the fragrant autumn air. It had smelled clean and full of promise. He looked down on the five, and on the girl in particular. He had been using her image to rile the prince earlier, but had never really thought of her beyond that. But at the time, when he saw her at the prince's feet, he felt something move beneath him.

She _shimmered_. It was as if the clean smell, the brilliant sunlight, the dewed blades of grass, the cool breeze, as if all those things rushed towards her, and crystallized. His breath was caught and trapped in his constricting chest, and refused to leave. His eyes sought hers out, seeking absolution. His hand slowly reached up towards her, asking for release. And his mind became still, a pond in a mist-filled forest.

She _swayed_. The light bent itself around her, sculpting her. The wind whispered its secrets to her, teasing her. And the sounds from the glade hushed in its cacophony.

And then she _sang_. There were no words to her music; nothing to distract the mind from the beauty of her song. It was lilting and yearning and begging. Grimmjow had brought a hand to his face, to discover that he was weeping.

She had then raised her sword. And in quick succession stabbed the ground three times.

Sound had flooded his ears and he had shaken his head in disbelief. When he looked down once more, the prince had sprung up, wide-eyed and trembling.

Grimmjow looked up to the Magistrate and said, "She was swaying." There was no disparaging smile or sneer on his face, though. He somehow knew that he looked completely calm when he uttered those words.

"Do you mean that she was performing some sort of ritual?"

Grimmjow shrugged. He knew what was required of him. "Aye. Could be. All I saw was that she was swaying, and then the prince woke up."

The words were barely out of his mouth before the Magistrate had both hands on the table and his torso looming forward. "This is quite serious, Ser Knight. If what you say is true, a noble-born of the Seven Kingdoms was seen practicing a heretical form of magic. There are only two forms of punishment for such a transgression, blood or the black. And in this town, sanctified by the Seven themselves, such an act would require blood."

"-Of the Seven Kingdoms? Are you quite sure?"

Every head turned towards the speaker. It was the Valyrian prince.

"The Seven would require her blood, Your Highness, not-"

The Valyrian prince lifted his chin. "I meant, when you had said that the Lady Kuchiki was noble-born of the Seven Kingdoms. Are you quite sure of that?"

Grimmjow nearly crowed from laughter. He did not think he had ever seen consternation on a blind man's face before.

"I fail to see what you meant, Your Highness."

The prince walked forward and commanded everyone's attention with his eyes alone. When next he spoke, it was to utter a handful of syllables.

"_Lugal Mu-un do Valar._"

**~o~**

**AIZEN**

"Did he say anything else?" Aizen asked.

The blue-haired Warrior's Son crossed his arms and leaned back. The godsworn knight snorted, and curled one edge of his lip in a mockery of a smile. "The orange-headed one just bawled something about justice and that the Lady Kuchiki should be in the meet with the Appointed. And then they kicked him out."

Aizen regarded the knight standing in front of him. He had heard the whispers about the Emissary from his spies in Essos. He was quite disappointed that the youth had not displayed the skills that he had heard about. He had not really thought that the youth would fight yet. No, not truly. He was still disappointed, however. It would have been interesting to see the work of those women.

He gave an imperceptible shrug. He would deal with the Emissary at a later time. Now, though, he needed to deal with some impertinence.

They were in his sitting room. Septon Cifer was standing in one corner of the room, and Ser Jaegerjaquez in the other. Aizen knew about the mutual hatred between the two, and had specifically requested for the Stranger's godsworn to summon the Warrior's knight. He was always delighted with such amusing tales that were played out before him.

Aizen's voice was as gentle as coaxing the chick from the roost. "My son, you sound oddly _satiated_ with the Emissary's slight humiliation. Do you perchance blame him for the injury of your fellow? Di Roy, was that not his name?"

Jaegerjaquez became still. "Di Roy got himself into it, and when next I see him, I will place the blame on his hide."

Aizen smiled, as soothing as stream water over jagged rocks. "I quite doubt that. My faithful servant, Di Roy Rinker, is in the hands of the sept's physiks. And you know as well as I do how beastly they treat their wounded."

Jaegerjaquez was silent. His hand came up, and slowly settled over his stomach.

Aizen continued, his words light and bantering. "There might not be a next time to speak with him."

Jaegerjaquez dropped his hand to his side. He grinned up to Aizen, and said, "Aye, that's life."

He had shaken his head at the knight's impertinence. Surely Jaegerjaquez would have known that he, the High Septon, would not be pleased at being disobeyed. Aizen had requested that he bring all five of his mongrel company of sellswords. It had not unduly affected the outcome much, but that was of no import. He had to teach his son a lesson, painful as it may be. Also, that maester that was walking the halls might take some interest. A loose tongue was better left tied up.

"And did our good Magistrate bring up the Lady Rukia's use of Children's magic?"

"He did, except that Valyrian said something, it sounded like lugor mu-"

"He said _lugal Mu-un do Valar_." The new speaker stepped into the scant light thrown by the candles. It was Magistrate Tosen.

Aizen turned towards Tosen, and raised an eyebrow.

Tosen sensed his question. "It is quite true. Prince Toushiro Hitsugaya had uttered the phrase of conquerors in High Valyrian, _Above All Men Stands the King's House_."

Aizen drew in a breath. It could not be true, could it?

The other three stood, regarding their lord in silence.

His chest constricted, and his breath for a moment refused to leave. And when he expelled his breath, the sound was subtle at first, creeping. It started from his stomach and crawled its way out of his mouth. When he arched his neck back, it grew. When he opened his mouth wide to release it, everyone finally heard what it truly was.

The High Septon was laughing.

And each one, the blood-thirsty knight that had known nothing but the taking and giving of pain, the cold-blooded religious fanatic that regularly drowned himself in man's miseries, and the blind proponent of justice whose last sight of the world was the color of flames and blood, each one of them stepped back in sudden apprehension and fear.

It was because they did not know what the High Septon knew. The Valyrian Prince had just pledged the Lady Rukia Kuchiki to be his betrothed.

And the High Septon could not help the tears of laughter that coursed through his cheeks.


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Kubo once mentioned that two of his favorite characters to write were Matsumoto and Yoruichi. They manage to dominate the spotlight whenever they come on the scene, mainly because they are strong female characters and are very comfortable in their skin. This was my way of doing a fun romp with these two cougars._

_ACK: Thank you again for the reviews/faves/alerts! This chapter hopefully builds up the tension a bit more before (one of) the big event(s)._

* * *

**~ Chapter 7 ~**

_The magic of Valyria is now shrouded in mist, partly because of the catastrophe that occurred, and partly because people tend to forget, or try to forget, great misery._

_- an excerpt from A Story Time Forgot (GSY)_

**~o~**

**YORUICHI**

"The Valyrian Prince has just pledged you to be his betrothed."

Rukia's face drained of color. Other than that, there was no indication that Yoruichi's declaration had any effect on her.

Yoruichi raised an eyebrow. She noted the young noblewoman's cold composure and controlled features. Byakuya had certainly done a splendid job of molding his sister in his own image. It only made Yoruichi itch to untangle his work. "He uttered the conqueror's phrase, some drivel about the king's house standing above all other men, or some such, during the inquisition into what happened this morning."

There was no response from the slight figure that sat before her.

Yoruichi sauntered closer. They were in Rukia's bedchamber. Yoruichi had come in unannounced and found the Northern noblewoman sitting by the window. "Hah, Valyrians and their imperious traditions. It seems the more powerful they are, the more they become mired in useless ritual. The conqueror's phrase is just one of them. You would think that with tame dragons by their side, they would continue with the policy of razing down every spit of land that they can manage to steal."

The shutters opened out to a beautiful evening, and the moonlight streamed in to touch Rukia's face.

Yoruichi continued. "But since they are a civilized people, they now choose to marry into the rich and powerful. And they use such lyrical language for it. Hah! As if their words did not still have the very real threat of the flame behind them. I mean-"

"He does it to protect me from the Most Devout," Rukia whispered, her gaze still far away. "But why? We knew each other for barely a fortnight. It is not enough time to go to such lengths."

Yoruichi's first impulse was to shake Rukia by her shoulders. The prince was a better bargainer than that sleazy merchant, she wanted to argue, if he can bed Rukia for a mere loss of bachelorhood. She reined in her tongue, however. It was not the time to play light with her. She stood by her apprentice instead, and looked out towards the shrouded night.

Darkness had always been Yoruichi's abode. It was not the skulking or the murders that were hidden within the Dark Lady's folds that attracted her; far from it. It was the mystery that beckoned her. She smiled as she thought of a pair of eyes that always seemed to hide in shadows.

"There is a story that my people tell," Yoruichi said, "a story of origins, of change."

Rukia cocked her head to one side. She waited.

"A tribe of shepherds once lived in squalor in the very backend of the continent of Essos. They were a forgettable people. Short, pale, slight of build. They lived in rough huts and wore rougher clothing. Even raiders refused to visit their small villages.

"One day, a young man from among them lost a sheep. Now, this was a common occurrence in those days. The land was mountainous and full of hidden crevices that could swallow you whole. But this young man was even more wretched than most; he had only two sheep in his flock, and the loss of one meant everything. He had been about to offer it to another family as bride price.

"A bride price, I am sure you are not familiar with the term, yes? We in our civilized ways know only of dowries, of offering up payments to men to take our womenfolk. For this people, however, as impoverished as they are, they knew the value of women well. They knew that women birth and care for the offspring that provides another set of hands to help, they knew that women are wily in finding food in the worst drought, and they knew that women provide the warmth that men seek in their crude manner. And they are willing to pay the price to have them.

"But this young man has just lost his chance at marrying one of the most beautiful girls in the village. She was slim as a wand, light as an eider, and hair like spun spider-silk. She was easily worth a hundred-strong head of herd, but you know how love is; makes you roll your eyes, does it not? Her father, however, insisted that the young man must at least have one head to offer as bride price, and one to start his family, else he would never have her hand, no matter how many tears the maiden would shed.

"And so the young man, with thoughts of his lady filling his head, searched far and wide for his lost sheep. His feet bloodied from the rough stone, his clothes tattered by the relentless wind, and his body punished by the harsh sun; yet still he continued.

"It was in the very border of the lands that his people claimed, in the gaping holes punched by some unknown god's hand, that he finally stopped and passed out from exhaustion. And he dreamed. It was completely dark, in his dream, and all he could see were the fires of the stars at night. A voice, thunderous and grave, spoke to him then.

"'Why do you punish yourself so, human?'

"'I seek a simple sheep, my lord,' the young man whispered.

"'Such misery to merely fill your belly? Bah!' and the voice drifted away in disgust.

"Time passed, the heavens dimmed, and the young man weakened. He dreamed once more.

"'Why do you suffer so, human?'

"'I seek a way to gain my beloved's hand,' the young man wailed.

"'Such suffering to merely satisfy your lust? Bah!' and the voice drifted away in anger.

"Time passed, the stars fell, and the young man was now on the brink of death. He dreamed a third time.

"'Why do you fight your fate so, human? If you but give in, you need not feel pain or suffering any more. Why do you linger?'

"'I seek a way to immortality,' the young man croaked. 'Only through the seed I sow, borne by my beloved, traded for with the sheep I seek, can I find my way towards it.'

"Laughter boomed and shook the ground. 'At last you show your true fire, human. I will give you a path to what you seek.'

"When the young man woke, he found himself restored. He cast about to see what had revived him. On his person, he found not a sheep, but a wondrous and strange animal instead. It warmed him with its breath and sustained him with its magic. He took the animal with him and found his way home. He offered his remaining sheep to the maiden's father, and wed his beloved within three days."

Rukia cocked her head to one side to regard Yoruichi. "Well? These tales usually end with a flourish, about how the man found immortality, or about how the animal turned into a great beast that he had to defeat. How did it end?"

Yoruichi leaned forward and smiled into her apprentice's face. "And here I thought you were too old for wetnurse tales." Yoruichi could not help straightening back up and throwing her head in raucous laughter when she saw the mortification on Rukia's face. "Oh, hush, little snow hare, I merely toy with you. It does not end with the man finding immortality, but he did find great happiness and wealth for him and his people. For the animal that he brought with him was the first dragon."

Rukia's head whipped towards Yoruichi, and her eyes rounded into saucers. "Truly? The Valyrians were shepherds before they found dragons?"

"Aye." Yoruichi looked away. There were others who told the tale differently; about a higher price that the young man came to pay for the dragon's gift that he received. But Yoruichi did not think that it was the time to recount such an end. "They ate, slept and shat as any other man that walked this land. But humble origins are oft times clouded over when the proud can write the canvas of their own history."

Rukia sighed. "Do you tell me this story to persuade me to welcome the change that this marriage can bring, or to make me forget my concerns of marrying a Valyrian?"

Yoruichi looked at Rukia, a smile on her lips. "Neither. I tell it to you to remind you that Valyrians once did great things," she leaned forward, her mouth but a breath away from Rukia's ear, "all to bed a woman they desire."

When she saw Rukia's enflamed cheeks and heard her helpless stuttering, Yoruichi's cackle, that time, erupted from her mouth and would not stop for a long while. It was only when Rukia was glaring daggers at her that she finally quieted down.

"Oh there, there, you would think that you have never lain with a man, the way you act so," Yoruichi said.

She did not think it was possible, but the flame on Rukia's cheeks and the ice that dripped from her eyes seemed to coalesce and cause a new color to be formed.

Yoruichi slapped her forehead in mock indignation. "This is completely unacceptable. You are to be married in three days, and you must at least-"

"Three days?" Rukia croaked.

"Yes, and if you think about it, you will understand the reason why."

Rukia's eyes narrowed. "Three. It takes two days for a winged message to reach the Royal Seat of the closest Westerosi king, and another two to come back. Does he mean to rush his marriage before any of the Royal Houses might object?"

Yoruichi smiled with satisfaction at her apprentice. No matter the demands on her, Rukia's keen intellect continued to find its way through to the truth of the matter. "Three days. It should be quite enough time."

Rukia eyed her warily, suspicion rising. "To do what, may I ask?"

Yoruichi could feel her slow grin reaching her ears. "To educate you in the art of pleasuring a prince."

**~o~**

**MATSUMOTO**

"I await your pleasure, my prince."

"Matsumoto, I had to command the guards to fetch you two candlemarks ago. I doubt very much that you had been waiting, or doing so with any kind of willingness," muttered Prince Hitsugaya.

Matsumoto suppressed a groan as she rubbed at her bleary eyes. She knew she should have found a better alcove to escape her master's scrutiny. Her temples throbbed with a pounding wine-induced ache. Some of the Westerosi knights had been boasting the previous evening how they can drink anyone under the table. She, of course, had to uphold the honor of the Freeholds. After all, the night's festivities were about the impending marriage of her master. She could not have the false rumor going around that Westerosi were better at drinking. She smirked at the memory of the knights being rushed to the sept physiks.

"Matsumoto. There are scrolls that need your attention." The prince was sitting by a desk and laboring over leather-bound ledgers. The morning light danced through the open windows and gamboled atop his silvered hair.

She sighed as she walked towards the smaller second desk that faced his. It was filled with what seemed like hundreds of parchment.

"It will not devour you, Matsumoto. You need not eye it with so much hate." The prince continued to hunch over his work, his quill moving over the parchment in a steady martial manner.

She slumped over her chair and looked over the mounds of detestable correspondence and journals that sat before her. She normally enjoyed conducting the prince's affairs as his Steward: gossiping with the other House servants, merry-making with the guests, and haggling with the merchants. She furrowed her brow. There might have been other tasks, but she could not really recall what they could be.

"Those are missives for some of the members of the Valyrian Central Court. And that pile on the side is my instructions to the purseholder. I am finishing the request to-"

Matsumoto pushed the incessant buzzing to the back of her head and stared morosely at the desk. She now remembered what those other tasks were. Occasionally, she had to assist the prince in going over the House accounts. It was not difficult work. She always seemed to get away from it in the past.

"Matsumoto!"

She woke up with a start and held both hands to her chest. "My lord! You gave me such a fright, I nearly tore the front of my dress." She pointed to her bosom, her ingenious gesture calling attention to a part of her body that never failed to distract most men.

Prince Hitsugaya merely snorted. "You will not escape this morning's accounts, Matsumoto. You have not been able to discomfit me in the least before with that move, you cannot fool yourself into thinking you could start now."

Matsumoto's eyes roved over the paper work, and unerringly picked out one. "This is a letter to the Heavenward Meet. You mean to give up some of your lands and elect to turn them over to the Meet? My lord Hitsugaya-"

"I am merely making preparations, Matsumoto."

She sighed. "It is because you are marrying into a Westerosi High House, is it not? To the Westerosi Royal Houses, it would seem like the slow encroachment of an empire on to their lands. And to the other Valyrian Houses, it is the greed and ambition of one from their ranks. You are trying to appease one side of the conflict to avoid the resulting conflagration that this wedding would bring."

"You are partly correct, Matsumoto. This parchment I am working on is for the King of the North. I am promising him tithes and lands from the Kuchiki estate as a sign of her continuing loyalty to the crown."

"You cannot be serious," she hissed. "You are pledging the Lady Rukia's wealth without her consent or even knowledge?"

Prince Hitsugaya's response was cold and formal. "It is the only way, High Steward, as you well know. This marriage poses one of the greatest threats to Westerosi sovereignty. When I invoked the conqueror's phrase on them, and demanded the hand of the Lady Rukia as my right, it was tantamount to Valyrian interference in their lands. It does not matter that my… status is not sanctioned by the Heavenward Meet of Valyria, or that the Meet would not even consider coming here, much less plan an overthrow. It only matters that a Valyrian Prince would now own a considerable swathe of their land. The Westerosi Royal Houses cannot fail but try to disrupt the wedding."

"Unless you give up your claim to much of that land," Matusumoto said softly.

He nodded curtly, his lips a thin line of frustration.

"And what of you?" Matsumoto queried.

He merely shrugged, whether from apathy or ignorance, neither of them was quite sure.

Matsumoto, however, refused his silent reply and doggedly continued. "The Meet is the only true form of governance for all of Valyria; they are the final arbiters for the noble Houses; and they are also full of the worst vipers of that lot. By giving up some of your own lands and income – your House legacy! – you are leaving your neck bare to their knives. They will scent that you are weakening, Lord Hitsugaya, and you know that they will pounce and take everything that is left if they have the slightest inkling that you will not fight back. Why not just let it be known that you are giving up your claim to the Kuchiki wealth, and be done with it? Why submit your own offering?"

Lord Hitsugaya took the small blunt knife that sharpened his quill and watched the sunlight skim over its iron surface. When he spoke again, there was a resignation to his voice, and something else. "They have always seen me as being different. They fear and loathe that difference. And now that I have stepped beyond the dance that they dictate, they will be even more eager to bring me down, and others of my House. My grandmother had always told me that in Valyria, it was always a balance between showing weakness and proving your strength. I am buying us time so that I can later prove my strength."

She had no reply. He had always been very thorough and calculating when it came to his affairs. She wondered once again if he truly knew why he was marrying the Lady Rukia, or if he was still under the delusion that he was merely doing so to save her.

Matsumoto stood up and stretched her aching body. It was time to do the real work, she thought.

"Did you perchance forget something, Matsumoto?" Prince Hitsugaya said, as he eyed her walking towards him.

When she was standing by his elbow, she grinned wolfishly down at him. "I am merely performing my duties, Prince Hitsugaya, in preparing you for your marriage."

"And how do you propose to help?" he said, one raised eyebrow in question.

"Do you recall that one night that I had walked into your bedchamber unannounced?"

"There have been many occurrences of that, I hardly know which one you are referring to." A slow flame was creeping up his cheeks, however. He most definitely knew which night she was speaking of.

Matsumoto pulled a small bound book from her bosom. It was a neat little thing, bound and threaded with gold, that one of her many suitors had given her. It hailed all the way from the Summer Isles, a land that some say concocted every conceivable trick that courtesans know, and some that they are not even allowed to speak of.

"M-matsumoto, what are you-"

She laid the book open on the first page with one hand, and with her other hand held her prince's neck in a tight grip. No one would dare say that Matsumoto could not fulfill her duties.

"What is-"

"I will not have Westerosi thinking that the Valyrian Houses are not masters in the Arts of Seduction. We will go through every page in this book until you have memorized all of them. This here is called the lotus flower position."

His scream was utterly delicious.

**~o~**

**URYUU**

"These fragrant poppy seeds are the heights of taste, young master! Come and try."

Uryuu ignored the peddler and proceeded to eye the other bins in the cart. In his vocation as Maester for healing, he knew just about any plant or root that helped his patients to the path of recovery, and those that pushed them to the other direction as well. However, he was leery of anything that smelled as pungent as those poppy seeds that the vendor kept throwing under his nose. He was not a cook looking for new spices; he was merely looking for familiar herbs.

Uryuu had decided to avoid the chaos that was the Starry Sept that morning by spending his time walking in the central market. He did not wish to involve himself in House affairs, after all.

He was just about to leave and duck back into the throng when a voice called out to him. "Oi! Ishida. You finally tired of the crypts, eh?"

Uryuu's eyes widened, and his breathing stopped short. It was Kurosaki. He was walking towards him through the crowded square, his three companions – Chad, Mizuiro, and Keigo – in tow.

Kurosaki looked at him, a single eyebrow raised quizzically. "Is something amiss? You seem as if you had seen ghost-o'-the-wisps instead of flesh-and-blood."

Uryuu looked around. It was much too crowded to have this conversation. His arm snaked out and latched onto Kurosaki's as his long legs loped towards a quiet alley that he knew was not too far. Kurosaki stuttered and complained loudly, as expected, but he paid it no heed.

"Kindly explain why you felt the need to drag me in here." Kurosaki said, glaring at Uryuu. His three friends crouched around him protectively.

"Where have you been?" demanded Uryuu.

It was Keigo that spoke. "We were tasked by that merchant, the one with the Northern lady, to visit the next town over to deliver some messages."

"Since when have you been lackeys to one such as he?" Uryuu replied between gritted teeth.

"He had said that the messages were of a delicate nature," bit back Kurosaki, "and that Ru- the Lady Rukia could not entrust it to any other."

"He did, did he," Uryuu said. "That wily old rat. I should have realized he would try something like this."

"Mayhap you can speak more clearly, Maester Ishida," Mizuiro said. "I feel that you are leading towards something."

Uryuu looked at Kurosaki and noted the weariness and sleeplessness that his friend wore around him like a battered cloak. There was no other way around it. He had to know.

"In order to save the Lady Rukia from the Most Devout's inquisition, Prince Hitsugaya pledged her as his betrothed. It removed her from an embarrassing and possibly damning line of enquiry. They were married today."

Kurosaki's face drained of all color, and his body became as still as one of those beasts that crouched at the edge of darkness.

His other companions, except for the hulking giant, spoke for him and threw their questions at Uryuu one after another, prodding and insisting that it could not be true. Uryuu's silence, however, convinced them.

"Kurosaki…" Uryuu said, a hand reaching out.

"Ah, so you are Ichigo Kurosaki, the emissary? The one who killed our fellow, Di Roy." The man who spoke stepped out of the shadows from the mouth of the alley. He was tall, with a long face and longer arms. Three other figures crouched around him, one nearly blocking the way out. "My name is Shawlong, and behind me are Nakeem, Edrad, and Yylfordt."

Uryuu hissed under his breath. He did not have his crossbow with him. He only had an arrowhead that he had planned on taking to the fletcher. He crouched and spread his legs to better position himself, and slipped his hand inside his vest to grip the piece of metal. The arrowhead would have to do as a dagger.

Kurosaki's companions also moved to better defend themselves, their hands gripping hidden weapons. Kurosaki merely stood amidst them, neither speaking nor moving.

"Kurosaki here was not the one who killed your comrade. He died under the care of the sept physiks, if you must know," called out Uryuu. "Molest them if you wish. They have murdered more people than the common sellsword."

"Deny it as you must, yet we know that it is that man you are protecting under your skirts that dealt the blow. Hand him to us or not, we shall take him all the same." Shawlong nodded once, and the three shadows behind him moved slowly forward. "My only regret is that the woman is not present to witness it."

"The Lady Rukia…" a voice behind Uryuu croaked. It was Kurosaki. "What did you want with her?"

"Hush, Kurosaki," said Uryuu. When Uryuu had been ministering to the man called Di Roy, he had applied his considerable knowledge to glean what information he could. He found nothing, as remarkable as that was. It was a sure sign of some sort of fanatical devotion to someone. And Uryuu thought that these four shared that same fervor. "Now is not the time to invoke the lady's name."

He felt something brush by him. Kurosaki was walking towards the four armed men. His hands were hanging listlessly at his sides, and his stride was almost casual.

"We would have been there with Di Roy, and we would have trapped her as easily as we now have you," intoned Shawlong.

"You…trapped…" Kurosaki continued, his gait now a shamble.

A chill suddenly crept up Uryuu's back. The air was suddenly thick and oily. Bile rose in his throat, and he fought not to gag.

"This is pointless banter," muttered one of the shadows. There was a hiss of metal, and all four figures undulated and separated to show their swords. "I'll go fer the three easy ones, Shawlong."

Uryuu cried out to shake himself from his stupor and stepped forward.

He only got as far as a single step. In the next second, Mizuiro had barreled into him to push him back. Uryuu turned his head to the side and saw that Keigo was whispering something rapidly to Chad, but they also had stepped back. Away from Kurosaki.

"What are you doing!" Uryuu cried out. Kurosaki was standing; he was not even in a fighting stance. He would be mowed down completely. "We must protect him!"

"Open your eyes, Maester," implored Mizuiro, "we are trying to protect _you_."

There was a desperate quality to the slighter man's voice that finally caught Uryuu's attention. He turned to look at Kurosaki.

Kurosaki stretched his neck to each side, once, twice. He then glanced back at them. The man who stared at him was not Kurosaki.

It was a stranger that wore his friend's face like a hideous grinning mask.


	8. Chapter 8

_A/N: I tried to take some time to plan and write the following chapter because this was one of the big events in this story (so I apologize for the delay in publishing it). The appearance of Hichigo was also one of the key things I always wanted to be able to write correctly. He is such an interesting character; one that I thought can be explored fully through the dark tinted world of Game Of Thrones. My take on his presence is more psychological than magical, so I hope his fans would forgive my brazen re-imagining. The timeline in this chapter is pretty linear, with the third section being a temporal continuation of the same section in the last chapter. So if it's been a while since you've read the story, you only really need to (re-)read the last part of chap 7 to get back in the flow._

_ACK: Thank you again for the reviews/faves/alerts! I was going to publish this for Valentine's, but stuff happened. So please, travel back in time, and imagine you're reading this in Feb 14. There is going to be plenty of HitsuRuki in this, but IchiRuki fans should not despair; there will be plenty for this pairing as well down the road. There is no lemon, but it would be very suggestive and borderline HBO rating, so please be advised._

* * *

**~ Chapter 8 ~**

_ Blood pools.  
Blood clots.  
Blood drains dry._

_He grasps the shard of ice, and plunges it into his heart;  
__There is no pain, there is no agony;  
__As his life beats slower, he only smiles at the sky._

_ Blood sings.  
Blood dances.  
Blood cries out._

_She cuts her heart out and offers it silently;  
__There is a cost, there always will be;  
__As her eyes implore the moon, she is wracked with doubt._

_ Blood spills.  
Blood splatters.  
Blood thickens to rot._

_He turns away and covers his face in shame;  
__There is a way, yet none he could see;  
__As his mask slips on, he thinks t'was all for naught._

_ Blood…  
…begets blood._

_- an excerpt from A Story Time Forgot (GSY)_

**~o~**

**TOUSHIRO**

Toushiro gently ran a finger around the smooth stone set in the white gold ring on his little finger. It was a curious stone, and he had never seen the like. It was round and bead-like, with alternating colors of dark green and black that covered the surface, except for a splash of crimson that stained it.

Lady Rukia had called it dragon's-blood jasper.

She had come to him the previous night, a soft knock on his door, a slight lift in her chin. He had told her that it was not seemly for a lady to come in a man's presence so un-chaperoned. And she had replied that surely, after the morrow's wedding, there were far more unseemly things that would happen between them.

The flame that consumed his cheeks had been enough to silence him and allow her entry.

"_There are things that need to be said between us,"_ she had said. Her eyes had looked out towards the night framed by his windows. _"Yet now may not be the time. Perhaps later, when we leave this place of secrets."_

He had demurred, and had told her that even before they utter their vows to each other, she should not feel any qualms in speaking with him.

She had made a slight noise then, an intake of breath that seemed to him almost a gasp. _"Vows,"_ she murmured. _"Vows are the lifeblood of Northmen. They vow to survive the winters that no sane people endure, they vow to hold the Wall from an enemy that only dead tales know of…and they vow to wreak vengeance when naught else remembers."_

He had looked away from her then. It had seemed that he intruded on something so private, so deeply part of her, that he felt he had bordered on desecration.

Her voice had called him back to her, however. _"Since we must hold this ritual here, where the rule of the First Men of the North no longer hold sway, the wedding ceremony must follow the Andal tradition then."_ She had raised her hand towards him, revealing a small intricately carved wooden box. _"But that does not mean that I could not satisfy at least one Northern custom."_

He must have given her a look of incredulity. The Andals believed that a woman's family should provide for the wedding celebrations, in gratitude to the poor sop that would take her from their hands. He had protested vehemently to the High Septon that his own coffers can cover the expenses, but the High Septon had quietly pointed out that they must follow the local traditions to avoid offering insult. After all, avoiding insult had led them to this in the first place. Yet now, on the eve of her costly Andal marriage, she was offering him even more.

"_It is our tradition,"_ she had said quickly to avert his refusals. _"The bride picks out a token, one from the land, that speaks to her of what kind of man she marries, or what kind of marriage she thinks to have."_ Her voice turned soft, distant. _"She is to offer it to her husband, to show her faith that she enters the marriage fully knowing what is in store for her."_

Toushiro once again ran his finger over the smooth stone. Dragon's-blood jasper.

When he had opened the box that she had given him and saw the ring nestled within, he could not help but feel a warmth steal over his body. It was a beautiful stone. He had made quiet enquiries, and found that the stone was extremely rare, found only in the Northern mountains.

He studied the swirling colors in the stone, and tried to think what they might mean to the Lady Rukia. Green, he had once heard, was a sign for fertility and growth. For a woman from a desolate land, it could portend something else entirely, one that his mind shied away from. Black was the color of mourning. To Northerners it was the sigil of the Brotherhood that stood watch, a sign of undying faith and loyalty. And red. A slight tinge of it, barely there and yet a stark contrast.

The sun's rays peeked out of the horizon and reached through his window to his hand. He looked towards the waking day, remembering. Dawn was the Maiden's hour. According to the Andals, a bride must be garbed at the hour of dawn in her vestments.

The wedding ceremony was beginning.

His mind instantly whirled through the many rituals. His servants would soon come in to lightly arm him, a flimsy jeweled dagger, in honor of the Warrior. He thought that tradition likely had more to do with men of old wielding real weapons, raiding and stealing the women they desired. The High Septon, as the Father's embodiment, would hear their vows, to sanctify and bear witness. And then would follow the mid-day feast, the Mother's hour, a time for generous food and copious drink. He hoped that Matsumoto would not embarrass herself in her cups. Their guests would then approach them, bearing their gifts and well-wishes, a nod to the Smith and his craftsmanship. He grunted in annoyance as he remembered that once they leave the hall, the matrons would be standing and crowing obscene counsel on how he must _perform_ in his husbandly duties in the bedchamber. That was surely one Crone's custom that he had hoped they overlook, yet one that he knew Matsumoto would stay sober for, if not for her own propriety.

"My lord? Are you awake?" a voice called out from behind his door. "It is time, my lord."

As he bid them to come in, he looked once again to the stone on his finger. The filtered sunlight etched out the red threads that marred the exquisite surface. The seventh offering to the gods, the final seal that binds their marriage, was a cost that he was not sure the Lady Rukia was prepared for, no matter what stone she picked out.

Her voice called out to him again, a spirit-wraith, lulling him from the present to the past. _"Do you have any custom you would like to follow?"_ she had asked him the night before, pausing by the door before she stole away into the gloom.

He had shrugged, and made an innocuous remark. In truth, Valyrians had myriad customs and rituals when it came to marriages. It was a hallmark of power, after all, and one that no Valyrian would hesitate to exalt in profligate ostentation. However, he did not think the Heavenward Meet would look kindly on him taunting their traditions in a pairing that they most certainly would not have condoned.

"_I…had heard that you follow the tradition of paying a brideprice,"_ she had said.

He had nodded curtly. Brideprice was a payment in service or goods offered by the man to the bride's family, and was the measure by which the value of the woman was gauged. He knew of brides from some Houses whose extravagance in their demands for their perceived worth were sung in legend. He did not think that the Lady Rukia was one such.

"_It might be that the price I ask of you would be too high,"_ her voice had been querulous, held too tight. _"Would you still be willing to wed me?"_

He heard his own response to her, echoed down to the present, as he mouthed it to the room once again. "The cost is not nearly high enough."

**~o~**

**RUKIA**

Rukia stood in her husband's bedchamber and tried not to weep.

Or to gnash her teeth. Both actions seemed equally likely for her at the moment.

His words still haunted her, even now, with the day almost gone. The entire day had gone by in a colorful blur. After she had left him the previous night, she had a restless sleep, and had been well awake before dawn. Lady Yoruichi had then stalked in to her room, followed by a grinning Lisa and a sulking Hiyori. They had dressed her in a beautiful gown of a material that seemed thin as parchment but soft as butter. The gown was cream-colored for the Maiden's chastity, with slashes of the crimson and dark ash underskirts, from the flames on Valyria's banners. Her House emblem was stitched in silver and onyx on her chest. It hugged her slim torso and flared coquettishly over her legs. Drops of brilliant rubies graced her ears and neck.

Once she finished dressing, Lady Yoruichi had then hustled her out of her chambers, muttering about ungodly hours for decent folk, and thus started a morning of parading her sins to the world. The Andal folk must have fervently believed in showing off their wealth, she thought. Otherwise, why have a custom where the bride is taken around the town to be subjected to strangers' gawking and leering? In the North, the only place they go is the godswood, and the only witness is the heart-tree, with its red leaves and white bark.

She had been told that this part of the Andal custom was to allow her time to think on the coming marriage, and to allow any naysayers to speak their piece. She could not imagine a worse way to mull on one's life, however. The early hour had not prevented curious onlookers from coming out in droves. Their cacophony and merry-making had been enough to deaden her ears, much less allowed her the chance to think again on her actions.

When she had thought that she would start kicking in someone's face soon if she were not returned to a place of sanctuary, the carriage had finally turned around and made its way towards the keep. Shinji, walking beside her carriage door, had looked up at her with an apologetic grin, followed with a slight relieved smile that his face was saved from a near-inevitable pummeling from her dainty feet.

When they had reached the doors to the Starry Keep's great hall, however, she had thought that she might have preferred the carriage ride after all. It had seemed as if a snowstorm was raging inside of her, burning her and freezing her at the same time, as she stood outside the hall where she would soon be married. To him, the Valyrian prince.

His reply to her the previous night seemed to be clamoring against the bulwark of her mind, asking her to pay heed to it, to accept it. And behind this voice, another's was whispering, a faint one, clothed in sunlight and a hard-won smile. As she stood by the hall doors, her whole body had refused to follow her commands. The floor had grown roots and held her in its grasp, refusing to allow her a further step.

She had not known how long she had been standing there, until she felt a light touch on both her arms. By her side, she had found Urahara and Lady Yoruichi, smiling down at her. With their help, she had been able to take that single step, and had opened the door to the hall.

A path from the doors to the end of the hall had led towards the High Septon, regal and smiling on his elevated seat. Prince Toushiro had been seated in front of him with his back to her. When she had taken her own seat besides the prince, the High Septon had cleared his throat and had started the ancient Father's invocations that bound a man and a woman.

She hardly heard a word.

All of her senses had left her when she opened the hall doors. She could hardly see the Maiden's candles that had been lit throughout the hall. She could hardly smell the rank odor of dozens of Warrior's Sons crowding it. She could hardly feel the rough grain of the wooden chair she sat on. She could hardly taste the salty trail of crimson moisture that burned its way from her bit lip to her tongue.

Throughout the day, from the Mother's feast through the Smith's offerings, she had not dared to glance at the prince sitting by her side. Instead she had looked onto the crowd, exposing nothing in her face.

It was only when he had stood up and had gently taken her hand, that she had noticed he was wearing the dragon's-blood jasper ring she had given him the previous evening. It had startled her so much that she had looked up to his eyes. Verdant, swirling green. The color of the sea trapped in ancient ice. She had stood up then, raised her chin in acknowledgement, and walked with him towards the hall doors.

They both ignored the lewd suggestions from the matrons as they had exited the hall. Yet Lady Yoruichi's shouted remark seemed to have penetrated her numb fog to burn her ears. She still could not forget how the Lady Yoruichi would sway her hips to demonstrate a certain courtesan's skill that she had needed to pass along to Rukia. And Rukia did not think that she would opt to make those breathy sounds either, no matter the Lady Yoruichi's insistence on something called affecting a climax.

When they had finally reached the prince's chambers, dusk was slowly setting in, the day's light fading outside his windows. He had excused himself to disrobe and had allowed some servants to come in to prepare her as well. The servants had grinned at her mischievously and had chattered on about their master. Once they finished, they had flitted out of the rooms and closed the door shut behind them.

Standing alone amidst her husband's rooms, garbed in nothing but a wispy shift, her senses returned to her with a vengeful force. And his response the previous night chipped away at her defenses to roar into life within her again.

"_The cost is not nearly high enough,_" he had said.

She wanted to rail at him, to tell him that he did not know of what he spoke. She would be asking him to betray his own people. For was that not how he would see it, when she asks him to aid her in seeking justice for her brother? She now knew that he could not have been involved in her brother's murder. He was not that kind of person. Yet that did not change the fact that someone from the Valyrian Houses had plotted Lord Byakuya's murder.

From what she had seen of him, he was fiercely loyal to his people, even when they had hurt him. She had heard from Urahara how Valyria's Central Court, the social focal point for their High Houses, had effectively banned him from their circles. Valyria's governing body, the Heavenward Meet, still grudgingly dealt with him, but only because of the wealth behind his name. Yet he still clung to the Valyrian mode of dress, he still wrote missives in the Valyrian tongue, and he still wore the distant and slightly arrogant expression that Valyrians were known for. Why would he then help her point an accusing finger at one of his people?

She knew if she had been placed in his position that she would rather cut out her own tongue than deny her own brother.

She looked out towards the window, towards the bleeding light of the dying day. Its light surrounded her and pooled around her. She shivered slightly. A ghostly touch skimmed over her left shoulder.

Toushiro was standing right behind her. His hand hovered over her skin. His eyes were lidded, sensuous and languid.

She felt her breath catch in her chest. She tried to remember Lady Yoruichi's words, and all she could remember was the swaying of hips. She turned slightly, so that she could better see. In doing so, she swayed her hips ever so delicately, rubbing against his thigh.

He gasped. His eyes dilated. His hand trembled slightly.

She felt both of his hands grasp her arms now. She was pulled towards him.

His lips parted. He leaned forward towards her. "Rukia," he whispered.

She thought she would be confused. She thought that she would be numb. Instead, a bright heat started from her core and climbed its way towards her throat. It etched out the whole room, his touch, his breath on her cheek, in exquisite detail. It froze the moment when he silently asked for her permission, in painful clarity, a dewy drop arrested from its fall from the heavens, as prismatic as rare glass, and just as delicate.

She parted her own lips in acquiescence.

His touch and his breath roamed her body, marking her white skin. It sought a way into her defenses, and besieged her completely.

When she finally felt the veil tear, she could not help but cling to him. A moan of both pleasure and pain escaped from her mouth.

He stopped, his breathing heavy, his eyes heavily lidded and hidden from her. Despite that, she knew that he waited for her, holding himself in check, bearing his own brand of pain to allow her a moment.

The image of swaying hips tickled her mind once again, and she followed suit. She felt him stiffen against her, and heard him moan treacherously against her ear.

It was much like a dance, after all. And Rukia found that she could follow the steps as naturally as her own Art of Zanpakutou. It had its own rhythms, its own beats, and, to both their sudden joined cries, its own sweet zenith.

Afterwards, they laid together on the bed, his arm slung over her waist, his eyes closed in sleep. She looked out towards the window again. Dusk had slipped off like a thief already, but the night was far from over. It had only begun for some.

She felt a dampness between her thighs. She reached out to gently touch it, and brought her hand up to the moonlight. Her fingers were dipped in blood.

It was the seventh offering, the one that the Stranger came to claim at each marriage bed. The gods always seemed to require blood for their price.

**~o~**

**ICHIGO**

It was howling for blood. Ichigo could feel it rising within him, waking.

They had just returned to Oldtown when Ishida found them. Ishida had told him, gently, understanding behind his spectacles. Rukia had married the Valyrian prince.

The Valyrian prince was the one that had protected her.

Voices rose and fell like the tide against his ears, yet he could not make out the words. He heard his name uttered, _Ichigo Kurosaki_. His father had told him that his name meant to protect one thing. He could not protect his mother. He could not protect her. The name was nothing but a lie.

It rose up again, that hidden voice. It hissed and slipped through his thoughts. _I have no name_, it said, _but I can protect_.

He remembered how it had started. The voice was birthed from the ashes of his mother's burning death. It had bided its time, surfacing only to whisper. There would be moments he could not recall, fights he could not explain. When the Valyrians' slave hunters came to harvest his two younger sisters, it swallowed him whole. He had passed over to unconsciousness and had awoken in his father's arms much later. His father had shielded him from seeing the mangled bodies of the slave hunters, but he had seen it all the same, reflected in his father's eyes. That was the day he had been given over to the priestesses. For his own protection, his father had said.

He tried to shake off the past, to look to the present instead. He bit his lip to clear his thoughts. Four shadows waited for him in the dark corners. They mentioned _her_; they sought her out as much as they sought his blood.

It stirred up again, the voice in his head. It was not a mocking voice this time. It was a scream, a guttural rage that tore itself out of his stomach and climbed its way to his throat. It said one name.

_There are four of them_, it growled. _These four are going to harm Rukia_.

His eyesight started to dim. A sensation much like drowning overwhelmed him. All sounds were distant, opaque. He saw the four figures undulating like waving fronds in a pond. They had named themselves, Shawlong, Nakeem, Edrad, and Yylfordt, they had said.

_I have no name_, it grinned, _and they would have no need for names in the place I will be sending them_.

He saw three other figures retreat, dragging a fourth one with them. He named them each, and tried to call them back: Chad, his silent Eye; Mizuiro, his philandering Ear; Keigo, his boisterous Mouth, and Ishida, of the dank crypts. But his voice started to fail.

The four sellswords advanced towards him, walking with the confidence of the strong and the powerful. They had their weapons in hand, ready to claim the vengeance that they required. He looked down, the last of the light leaking away from his sight. Ichigo then realized, with the calm that came before the storm, that he was losing consciousness.

When the young man with the bright orange hair looked up again, he was grinning like one of the moonstruck. Except for the eyes. The man's eyes were dilated like a savage beast.

"Your companions have abandoned you, and yet you continue to gloat. You must relish the thought of your own death," drawled the one with the long, thin face.

"Shawlong, this man is not right in the head, we should finish him quickly and move on," remarked the one with the lean figure and long blond hair. "It would be a mercy to him."

The thin-faced one nodded to the other two. "Edrad. Nakeem."

"We should make him scream for a while yet; t'would be his penance for Di Roy's death," replied the stocky one with the cropped hair.

The last one, a giant with his head shaved on one side, merely grunted and moved off to the side.

The man they surrounded, lean and whip-like body relaxed, looked up towards the heavens and started laughing. The movement opened up a small wound on his lip. A crimson trail flowed down like a secret stream down his chin.

The thin-faced one sneered and said, "I daresay the sight of your own blood amuses you, eh, Ichigo Kurosaki?"

The orange-haired man's head snapped back to glare at him. "I am not Kurosaki." He smiled at them, showing his teeth. "But you are correct. I am amused by blood."

It would have been difficult to determine how he moved, this man with the bright hair. He stood at one spot, and suddenly, he was in another. His movement was fluid, graceful, and frighteningly fast. His muscles became taut, strained of their boundaries.

He stood behind the one with the long hair. His one hand reached over to grab a handful of locks, the other hand grasping the chin. A loud snap reverberated to attest to the broken neck. Without pausing, the hand that had gripped the chin moved towards the long-haired one's sword.

The orange-haired man's hand still buried in the dead man's hair, he threw the body at the stocky man barging into him. He used the sword in his other hand to ram it into the belly of the giant.

The giant man stepped back. Undaunted, he raised his arm once again. His target, however, was long gone.

The orange-haired man spun. He came behind the stocky one. He used both hands on the pommel of his sword and beheaded the other.

The thin-faced one came close, and jabbed a long serrated knife into the orange-haired man's side.

It did not even give him pause. He turned and pulled out the knife from his own flesh. He buried it in the eye of the thin-faced one. He grasped the blade of a second knife in the other's hand. Its edges bit into his hands, savaging them. But he won it free from the other man. He spun again to the thin-faced man's flank, and buried the second knife in his skull.

The lumbering giant screamed and rushed over to his companion. Yet he was too late.

The orange-haired one picked up the fallen sword. He kneeled close to the ground and swung low. It tore through the knees of the giant, bringing him down closer.

The giant man was screaming in agony and swinging his arms in dazed confusion.

The orange-haired man walked with ease towards the third body. He slowly pulled out the knife buried to the hilt in its eye. He looked to the maddened giant, and with unerring accuracy, threw the knife. It found its mark in the giant's neck, severing the artery. The giant plopped over to his side, never to rise again.

He walked over to the giant's body. He pulled out the knife once again. And in perfect arcs, proceeded to slash away at the mountainous flesh.

"Kurosaki! Kurosaki! You must stop!" cried someone behind him. "What you are doing is an abomination."

The orange-haired man craned its neck. There were four more figures. One, a bespectacled man, was the one speaking. The others were holding on to his arms, keeping him from something. "I have told you. I am not Ichigo Kurosaki." His lips widened into a grin. "I do not have a name."

His one hand gripping the knife still, he started towards the other four. The buzzing voice was annoying the orange-haired man.

Mid-step, however, he stopped. The wound in the man's side had not abated, and the loss of blood was finally claiming him. As he dropped to the ground, his last breath was a curse on the frailties of flesh.

"Keigo! He has lost consciousness. Let the maester approach and tend to his wounds." The voice was controlled yet high-strung. It must be Mizuiro giving commands once again, Ichigo thought.

Ichigo felt people crowding around him, though he could not see. It seemed like a black veil hung over his eyes, refusing him entry.

"What in the names of the Seven happened?" That must be Ishida and his worrying, thought Ichigo. "His face…it…it was twisted, somehow. Contorted. And why did he not collapse sooner? With this wound, no one could have possibly-"

"Hush, maester, I am supposed to be the one shrieking like a molested maiden here, and yet you best me in my efforts." Keigo's hysterics were unmistakable, thought Ichigo.

"I certainly do not shriek." Ichigo could almost feel the glare from Ishida magnified by the spectacles. "I have stopped up the bleeding for now. However, we need to move him to the sept. He would need stitching, and plenty of it."

Ichigo felt strong hands lift him gently. Chad, he thought in satisfaction.

"However else you may try to divert my attention, you will not deny what occurred just now. That was…" Ishida was momentarily silent. "That was not him. It was not Kurosaki. Was it?"

"No, it was not," muttered Chad.

"It happened after he witnessed his mother's death," replied Mizuiro. "He would go into these states. He would be in a constant bloodthirst. And neither mortal wounds nor pleading friends could pull him back."

"I have…heard of this condition," Ishida mused. "They referred to them as _amok_ in the far forests of Yi Ti. The crazed men."

"Whatever it is, it was only the loss of blood that caused him to fall," said Mizuiro. "And we hope it would also bring Ichigo back."

Ichigo pulled back from his companions' conversation. Their words washed over him, touching him and yet leaving him clean at the same time.

He did not dwell too much on the feel of blood that stained his body from his hair to his feet. It felt too much akin to water. And water was life, as much as blood was. As much as Rukia was to him.


End file.
